


UlBRARY OF CONGRESS,^ 



Z UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 

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OEM 


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BT 




ELIZA 


GABRIELLA 


LEWIS. 


Eyw dya7iov6a xalrjTegov. 






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PRINTED BY SHANN;0N 
98 Cranberry street. 


& CO., 




1850. 





•Li 33 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

The Outlaw, a Dramatic Sketch, 1 

Can the voice die tS 

Medora's Song 53 

Song 58 

Listening to the ]\Iusic of the Telegraph Wires. . GO 

Impromptu ib. 

To the Absent 61 

The love of other days 62 

Stanzas 64 

To Mary 60 

Sons^ 67 

A Penitent's Address to the Muss » 68 

Love, Reason, and Truth .......>. ^ c 70 

Song .ioc... 71 

To the Author of " A New Reading of Old Songs" 73 



IT. CONTENTS. 

PAGE, 

The Impatient 74 

To die in summer's pride, alas } 76 

Song 78 

ToR 80 

" Winter with snow flakes on his hoary brow". . » 81 

Voice of the Thunder-Cloud S3 

On a Violet 85 

To Cora 86 

Invocation 88 

The Deserted Wife 89 

To 91 

Thoughts 92 

To the Message Bird 93 

The Exile's Lament 94 

The Reverse 96 

Song 97 

To 98 

Stanzas 99 

To 101 

Death of Opechancanough 102 

To Grace 103 



CONTENTS. T. 

PAGE. 

Love 104 

Nay say not so, beloved 105 

To 106 

Confessions 103 

I'll dream no more 110 

The Packet Ship Ashburton Ill 

The Coquette 113 

To the memory of one of the Signers of the Inde- 
pendence 115 

Childhood's Prayer 117 

The Consumptive 119 

Philosophy of the Stars. 121 

The Festival 122 

The " Bloody Run" 125 

The Backwoodsman's Tale 128 

The last errand of the Indian Chief " Bald Eagle" 134 

The Blasted Oak 136 

The Combat 138 

Death and the Warrior 141 

Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle. . . . 143 

To 147 



THE OUTLAW; 



A DRAMATIC SKETCH, 



DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 



Duke Malvino, (Father of Lady Isabella). 

Baron Alberto Rivoli. 

Baroness Isabella. 

Helvitio, The Outlaw, {Lady Isalella^s Irother). 

Lord Oscar, {Friend of the Baron). 

Pag^e^^"^' ( ^t^endants of Lady Isahella. 
Jailor, Soldiers, Citizens, &c. 

MOUNTAINEERS. 

Madeline, (A mountain girl). 

Old "Woman. 

Girls. 



THE OUTLAW. 



ACT. I. 

SCENE I. — Duvgeo?!. 

Helvitio chained. 

Enter Jailor. 

Jailor. Six thousand marks, good master rob- 
ber, I think thou said'st, this morning 1 

Helvitio, Six thousand marks, old fellow ; are 
they not a goodly ransom for these rusty chains ? 

Jail, Aye ! but, my head ! My head it sitteth 
now most firmly on my shoulders. Should'st 
thou escape, might I not tremble for it ? 

Hel, And should I not ? — Six thousand marks 
die with me. 

A 



56 THEOUTLAW. 

Jail, But wilt thou swear '? — [aside. ^ What oath 
can hold a robber 1 — What pledge givest thou of 
this forthcoming ransom'? 

Hel. My word. 

JaiL A goodly pledge, no doubt, and one 
most worthy ; but 

HeL Old man, I am an outlaw ; yet I bear 
A heart that throbs as thine hath never throbb'd ; 
And were my life a ransom for the falsehood, 
I would, upon the scaffold, lay it down. 
Rather than sully it — by a base lie ! 

Jail. Well, well! no need to put thee in a 

passion. 
Five thousand marks are set upon thy head — 
But that the soldiers who entrapp'd thee '11 

share : — 
So then, if thou wilt promise me, most truly, 
To pay six thousand marks into my hands. 
Three days at farthest, after thy release. 
Our bargain's made. 

Hel, I promise thee : Come, come, knock off 

the fetters ! 



T H E O U T L A W . S 

Jai\ Softly ; I must file them off; 
And to do that must get an instrument. 

I will be with thee anon. 

[Exit Jailor. 

Hel. Now, by yon Heaven, I almost scorn my 
Freedom — 

Bought from this traitorous knave ! 

Would that my own good sword could cleave 

A passage through these walls. 

Man, it is said, hath ever 
Some enduring passion for wealth, and state — 
Power — fame— or love : 

Each moveth different natures — such, not mine. 
Oh ! I would be the Eagle, in its flight 
Soaring to Heaven and sunning its strong pinions 
Beneath the glorious sun ; 

And when fatigued with gazing on its splendor, 
My couch should be the high and rugged cliff, 
Whose dangerous steep man never yet hath 

clomb ; 
My food, torn from the pale and worthless slave, 
Whose soul would grudge the given morsel ; 
And, for the music of the tinkling lyre, 



4 THEOUTLAW. 

Give me the mountain breeze — the sea-bird call — 
The moaning of the chafed and angry waters. 

Caught thus, and caged. 

Whilst sleep bedimmed my senses : 

My band dispersed — roving I know not whither — 

And fearful of their captains doom — 

Death by the headsman's hand. 

Courage, my heart, I hear my jailor's step, 

And in that tread lieth freedom ! 

Enter Jailor. 

Jail, Softly, softly ; thou seem'st in angry 
mood. 
Here is the cunning tool — now for thy fetters ! 
[Files ihemJ] They're off. — I'll drop this file nigh 

by thy straw. 
Thou 'ft free ; and here the rope — tie hands and 

feet ; — 
I will prove me innocent. Knock down the 

sentinel. 
God speed ! Yet hearken — the six thousand marks. 

[Exit Helvitio. 



T II E U T L A W . O 

SCENE II.— A Ruinous Castle by the Sea-shore 
— precipitous rocks — a small boat moored. 

Enter Baron Alberto and Page. 

Page. Around this ruined castle oft, my Lord, 
I've seen my lady wander ; and the weary night 
O'er-burthen with her sorrow- 

B. Alber, Deem'st thou her love so perfect, 
That the edge of this most doting passion 
Still remains a dagger in her bosom ? 
Love's she him yet ? 

Page, My lord, of whom now speakest thou ? 

B. Alber. [agitated with passion.] Whom 
speak I of? Knave thou dost know 
I know not whom I speak of — yet this much 

know : — 
He has a serpent's tongue— a smooth and flowery 

speech — 
Such winneth woman ; — soft and fair 
The curling moustache, and the clustering locks. 
Ye marvel that I saw thus much, at such 
A damning moment ? Know then, I noted 

a2 



THEOUTLAW. 

With a jealous eye — one hungry for revenge — 
And marked well, upon my bosom's tablets, 
Each cozening trait. 

Page* Oh, my lord, my lord ! 

1 pray thee look not thus. [sir ; 

B, Alher. [recovers himself, \ Speak on young 
What of thy virtuous lady? 

Page, For hours she leans 'gainst yonder 
battlement. 
With eyes, that weeping, seem two precious gems, 
Half hidden 'neath the pure and lucid wave, 
That but enhance their beauty. 
Believe me, noble sir, she mourns the loss 
Of thy prized love most deeply. 
I have seen true and honest grief : 
My mother wept when my kind father died — 
So weeps the gentle Lady Isabel. 

B, Alber. [musing,] It seems as yesterday. 
I see her now, with modest look, 
Gazing upon my face — my own fair bride ! 
Was that a brow to write deceiver on ? 
Oh ! woman, woman ! 



THEOUTLAW. 7 

Page, [kneeling, 'I Pardon me, my Lord ; 
I pray thee think it not. 
Forgive my boldness : — see my gentle lady ; 
It is the hour at which she's wont to walk : 
Oh ! wilt thou not speak peace unto her bosom ? 
Look on her form — wasted by gnawing" care ; 
Through her wan slender fingers glide the tears, 
Forever flowing ; — I can ne'er believe 
That guilt e'er dwelt with so much humbleness ! 

B. Alter, [still musing,] Who spoke of peace 1 
Canst thou bestow such boon? 
Restore a wanton's purity— a husband's trust ? 
God's blessing on thine head, if thou can'st do it : 
But no — I tell thee she's as false as hell ! 
I saw the clasping hands — the speaking glance — 
The tears that fell at parting ! Get thee gone, 
Thou tempting devil ! 

Page, [kneeling,] One word — only one word — 
Forgive— 

B, Alter, Up, boy j I have resolved to try 
The lady's boasted constancy. My friends 
Think me abroad — my rank concealed — 



8 THEOUTLAVV. 

Engaged in foreign warfare: — Report my death, 
And I will then retire to yonder cave, 
And play the holy hermit ; there I'll wait 
'Till time hath proved suspicion true or false. — 
Boy, thou must hence, and to thy lady say — 
Alberto^s dead ; shed tears and counterfeit 
True sorrow well. 

Page. Poor lady, 'twill not need ; 
My tears fall truly for her. 

B* Alter. Give her these papers and this signet 
ring ; 
This letter — my farewell : Tell her I died, 
Forgiving her, upon the battle field. 

[Exit Page. 

If then she leaves this ruined tower, and goes 
With buoyant heart unto her princely home — 
Wearing gay smiles when her sad weeds are cast, 
I will believe her false — and plunge 
My dagger deep in her treacherous bosom — 

But hark ! what step intrudes 

[Lady Isabella appears at a distance. 



THEOUTLAW. 9 

[Aside,] 'Tis she, my Isabella ; down my heart, 
Cease thy tumultous throbs ; let me retire. 

[Retires behind a rock* 
I dare not speak— scarce dare I gaze 
Upon her wondrous beauty. Oh ! my love — 
Far dearer now than when in youth I won thee ! 
Wert thou but true !— Oh, God ! oh, God ! 
'Cast far from me that maddening thought ! 
Give back the freshness of my youthful heart, 
Ere that false woman ruined every hope, 
And taught me fell revenge as Heaven's best gift! 
She speaketh ; — no, it is the moaning wind. 

[Tsabella enters the castle. 
So quickly gone. My day 's bright sun hath faded ; 
Night comes apace. On, on, now, to my exile, 
Beneath yon range of wave- worn rocks. 

SCENE III,— Room in the Tower. 
Lady Isabella. 

L, Isabel. Three years have passed since my 
imprisonment. 
Oh, weary hours, with nought to make their lapse 



10 T H E O U T L A \V . 

But my sad tears ; yet, with a woman's constancy, 
I love the cruel heart that thus 
Could bid me linger far, far from each fond tie. 
My father, w^iere art thou 1 Who now will cheer 
Thy sinking heart, when wintry age creeps on? 
With tender care watch thy slow faltering steps, — 
And when that hour of mortal pain draws nigh — 
As with deep groan the lingering soul springs 

forth. 
On its eternal flight, — who then will close thine 

aged eyes 
And weep above thy dear remains? — [Weeps. 

Enter Amelia. 



A7?ie. Dear lady, weep not so ; 
There may be happy hours in store for thee ; 
E'en now thy page from Dresden hath returned, 
With messages and pacquet from thy friends. 
Shall I admit him ? 

L. Isabel. Do so, Amelia. [Exit Amelia. 

Alas, my heart speaks not of hope, 



THEOUTLAW. 11 

But some great woe weighs, with presentiment. 
My senses down. 

Enter Amelia and Page. 

Speak, boy, what says my father ? 
Ah ! tears ! he's dead ! My heart 
Forboded this. 

Page. No, lady, no : 
My lord the Duke is well. 

He greets you kindly, and thus bade me say : — 
With all good speed bid her to hurry on. 
Her father sighs once more to bless his daughter. 
This letter, lady, vouches for my truth — 
This pacquet and this well known signet ring. 

[Lady Isabella takes the ring, 

L. Isabel, [rapturousl]/.] My husband's ring ! 
Oh ! happy fate ! He has at length relented : 
This letter will explain. 

[Reads.] Farewell; I died blessing my injixred 
wife — 

[Lady Isabella /az>?^5— Amelia goes to 
her assistance. 



12 T H E U T L A VV . 

Ame. [To Page.] Quick, quick, some water — 
Throw the casement open. 
Alas, what alleth tliee, dear lady 1 
[ToPage.] Hast thou brought tidings of evil import. 

Page. Our noble master's dead, 
And much I fear. 
Our lady will not long survive him. 

Ame, My lady's but a woman, after all — 
Although a most discreet and virtuous one. — 
She hath known much of sorrow, yet lived on ; 
And this new grief but wears another form. 
[To Page.] See, she revives, bring yonder goblet. 
Drink, my sweet lady, 'twill restore thy strength. 

L. Isabel. Cease, good Amelia, 
I am well, quite well. 
Leave me to my own thoughts. 

[Exit Amelia and Page. 
Gone ! the last hope that had sustained my spirit ! 
The stream flows on, though winter shred 
The loveliest blossom that o'erhung its banks : 
Thus wills the Almight}^ — good and merciful. 
Forgive me. Heaven ! teach me to bow my heart 
Unto the Avill of the All-wise Disposer. 



T II E U T L A W . 13 

Once more I will endeavor to peruse 

This sad memorial. 

[Readsy intei rupted by tears-.] My husband ! 

Would I had died for thee — and, dying-, proved 

My innocence ; — bat thus to leave me. — 

Death ! how terrible thou art, 

Embittered by the thought of treacher3^ 

Enter Amelia. 

Ame. My lady, did'st thou call? 

L. Isabel, No, good Amelia ; 
But come hither to me. 
It was his wish — my lord's last wish — 
That I should choose my future residence 
Where it may please me. 
My choice is made ; and here I will remain, 
Nursing his loved remembrance, and my grief, 
With such a churlish care, that none shall know 
A widowed bosom dwells within these walls. 
My honored father — I must e'en deceive him, 
Lest, with a cruel kindness, he should call me 
To the vain pomps I covet not. 



14 THEOUTLAW. 

But if within a convent's sacred walls 
He deems I seek a refuge from my woes, 
'Twill be a sanctuary Avhich not e'en 
A parent's love would tear me from. 
Take thou this casket, which contains 
Deeds of importance ; give it to my page. 
And let him bear it to the Duke, my father. 

[Exit Amelia — Lady Isabella leajis on her 
couch, her face covered hy her hands — Amelia 
returns. 

And now, Amelia, can'st thou here remain. 
Lonely and sad, to watch thy fading mistress 1 

Ame. Dear lady, speak not thus : 
Rememberest thou the tale thy mother told. 
When here, upon this now deserted spot, 
A happy family dwelt ; 
And near a fisherman had reared his hut, 
And earned a humble living by the sea ; 
Which one dread night threw him a mangled corse* 
Upon the rocky shore. Two lived to mourn him : 
One, a wretched wife j the other, a young child 
That knew not death, but played 



THE OUTLAW. l5 

With the long" tangled locks that hung about it's 

father. 
Then came thy gentle mother, Lady Anne, 
And snatched the babe from its sad play, 
And bore it unto the castle, with its maniac 

mother. 
Lady, I am that child, and owe a debt 
That time can never pay. 

I/. Isabel, Here, then, we will remain, 
And dwell in solitude ; 
This ruined home is the most fitting bower 
For my wrecked heart. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.— Mountain Scenery— A Hut, 

Banditti disguised as Mountaineers, 

\st. Moun, Still absent ! 
Where roves the bold and gallant heart 
That oft hath led us on to some rich spoil ? 
Rememberest thou the castle that we sacked. 



16 THEOUTLAW. 

The trembling band of women,whose shrill screams 
Still seem to pierce mine ear ? 

M. Moun. Well ; 
And our captain bade us lead them gently 
Unto a neighboring hamlet — with strict command 
To carry them in safety — bidding us remember 
He warr'd not with young babes and trembling 

women. 
Where roves he now ? Angling for some fair fish. 
And sparkling like a dolphin, when it glares 
Beneath a sunny ray 1 

1st Moun. Bew^are ; let us not forget we're 
mountaineers ; 
Join in the revel and the dance 
With these wild mountain girls. — 

Enter Peasant girls. 

Hark ! what sounds are these ? 
Heard ye not distant shouts 1 

Madeline, It is a band of soldiers on the search 
for the bold robber, w^ho but late escaped from 



THE OUTLAW. 17 

prison by a desperate attempt upon his keeper's 
life. He fled, it was supposed, to this wild spot. 

2d Moun. A robber, said'st thou 1 

Mad. Where wert thou bred not to have 
heard of that famed robber chief? Where are 
your eyes — your ears ? A mountaineer ! good 
faith, I doubt thee much. 

2d Moun. I was bred, my pretty Madeline, far 
from the spot where sparkle thy bright eyes. My 
ears are here open to list to thy speech ; my 
mouth not too far off to answer thee. 

[Attempts to salute her. 

Mad. Stand off, my friend ; your lips are elo- 
quent, but my rejoinder may apply more strik- 
ingly. I doubt no more. 

2c?. Moun. Stay but a moment, gentle Madel- 
ine, I have much to say that may not be said as 
well on another day. 

Mad. Say on. 

2d Moun. Hast thou e'er loved 1 Of all thy 

friends, hast thou found one to whisper in thine 

ear how fair thou art 1 

B 2 



18 T H E G U T L A W , 

Mad, Loved ! oh, yes ; most certainly I've 
loved. I love my mother — love my little dog— my 
last new ribbon and my scarlet boddice ; — and as 
to flatterers, my dog fawns on me and my mother 
says I am her pretty Madeline ; but, most of all^ 
I love — 

2d. Moun. Oh ! speak. 

Mad. I love my own dear will. Ha, ha, ha ! 

2i Moun. Well ; thy dear Will am I. Is it 
not so ? 

Mad. Hush ! hush ! )^ou weary me, go hence ; 
here comes my mother with food and drink ; re- 
fresh yourselves, then will we to the dance. 

[ They sit down and take refreshments. 

Enter Soldiers. 

Captain. In time to share your feast my pretty 
girl ? Will you not welcome us with your sweet 
smiles ? 

Mad. [curtseying.'] Welcome to our poor fare. 

\^At this moment the Outlaw is seen cautiously de- 
scending the mountain at the lack of the hut — 
the Captain catches a glimpse of him. 



THEOUTLAW. iQ 

Capt, Forward ! my men. Now, by my hali- 
dame, there starts our game ; the hunt is up; — 
seize, seize him instantly ! 

[Mouzitaineers gently interpose. 

Capt, [To Moun.] Stand back, my friends; 
see you not the robber whom we seek 1 [Moun- 
taineers remain silent.] Stand back or we will force 
you from your post. — On then, my men, the 
sturdy knaves abet him. 

[Mountaineers draw weapons from beneath their 
dress. 

Ist Moun. We move not at thy proud request. 
Free men are we, that hold not to the slavish 
laws of citizens, but succor the oppressed. 

Capt, Down, down with them my men ! 

[Helvitio joijis the Mountaineers — a Skirnish 
— Soldiers disarmed. 

Hel. [To Capt.] Rise, my brave foe, nor scorn 
To take thy life a gift from outlawed hands. 
For the space of three short hours. 
Thou and thy men are captives ; 
That time elapsed, thou'rt free to seek again thy 
victor. 



20 THEOUTLAW. 

[To Moiin.] My friends, we'll meet again, 

Then will I thank you ; now, 

Each moment counts a death stroke to my life. 

[Exit, 
Capt, [To Moun.] Thou shalt repent thy most 
audacious conduct, and the authorities shall look 
into this wild seditious rising. 

1st Moun, See'st thou that bird on yonder 
lofy tree 7 
Seek it and win it to obey thy will ; 
Or chain the wolf and bid it fawn on thee ; — 
These thou may'st do ere bend our hearts to cringe. 
Thou art a captive and a captive's part is silence. 

Enter Madeline. 

Mad, Have they all gone — that dreadful look- 
ing robber 1 Oh, oh ! I am so frightened. You 
wicked man, how could you fight 1 Are any 
killed. 

[Sees the Soldiers — Screams. 

2(1 Moun, No, no, you silly girl, they are not 



THEGUTLAW. 21 

dead. What frightens you 1 Call out 5^our 
laughing- friends. 

Come let us laugh, dance, sing, and joke and play, 
Thus pass our time, joy comes not every day. 

Mad. Dance ! no, by my faith, I cannot. See 
how I tremble. 

2d Moun. Come, come ; take each a partner 

for the dance. 

[Dance — Stop to refresh themselves. 

Cap, Are we at liberty! The time hath past 
Moun. Away, ye are free. 

[Exit Soldiers — Mountaineers ahout departing. 

Mad. Must you go '? Well, well, I'll wait 
awhile for your return, ere I attempt to wed ; a 
dozen hours perhaps : [Goes to the door of the hut J] 
Say, mother 5 shall I wait that age for our brave 
guest '? 

Old Woman. [Comes forward.'] Aye, aye, child, 
I waited long enough for your old father ; heaven 
rest his soul. 

Mad. Well, then, good friend, I'll promise 
you, and like some ancient pagan, prize a brazen 
image. 



22 



THE OUTLAW 



2d Moun, Sweet Madeline, I swear the brass 
shall be well gilded ere I bring it back to my 
young worshipper. [Exeunt Mountaineers. 

Mad. Come, mother, let us work, or else I'll 
weep — my heart's so heavy. 

Old Woman. Poor child, you make me think 
of my young days. Come, scour away, and then 
we'll to our spinning. 



SCENE II. — Distant mountains — Soldiers descend- 
ing — the Shore — a small Fishing Boat shel- 
tered under a shelving rock. 

Enter Helvitio. 

HeL Thus far I've fled, but now 
My wearied limbs refuse to bear me ; 
Would I could see some friendly shallop near, 
To aid me in escaping from my foes. 
Hah ! does my sight deceive me ? 
There is one close moored near yonder rock. — 
Off, off my bark, thou bearest an outlawed freight. 

[Looses the boat. 



T H E O U T L A W . 23 

My gallant band, your chief from bondage freed, 

Hastes to rejoin yon ; 

But first redeem my pledge to that base chnrl, 

Who, with his shaking fingers, loosed my chains. 

And bade me send a heavy ransom for it. 

My sister, 'tis reported, is immured 

Near this wild spot ; — 

I'll hasten now to seek her ; 

Oft she hath relieved my hard necessities ; 

Praying me, with tears, to turn from my wild 
course. 

But for her strict command, this trusty dagger 

Would, ere this, have pierced her tyrant hus- 
band's heart. 

I go to seek her. 

[Jumps into the hoal. — Exit between rocks. 

Enter Soldiers. 

Capt, Thus far, my comrades, fled the bandit 
chief. — 
Six thousand marks are set upon his head— 
A noble bounty for the border wolf; 



24 T H E O U T L A W . 

Would that it now were hanging to my belt, 

And that rich sum beneath it. 

The game is worth the toil ; 

Disperse, and hunt the wolf from out his den, — 

He must have earthed him here. 

[Captain reclines on tlie rocks. — Exit Soldiers in 
all directions. 

What if the wolf should pounce upon me now? 
I must be watchful ; yet my laggard eyelids 
Warn me to court repose. 
Well, come what will, I'll sleep. 

\_Slee'ps. Soldiers seen at a distance scouring 
the country. 

[Wakes startled.'] Upon my life, I thought his 

hand was on me ! 
Sleep, thou hast played strange pranks within my 

brain. 
It is not pleasant to be taken prisoner. 
Even in slumber. What, ho ! my men ! 
Methinks I lack'd discretion 
In letting all depart. 

[Soldiers seen returning. 



T H E U T L A W . 25 

l5^ Soldier, Captain, we have scoured the 
country and have found no traces yet of the bold 
outlaw. 

Cap, No signs, thou said'st 1 

1st SoL None ; sterile rocks alone have met 
our view. 
The night is falling, and a murky one 'twill be 
In this wild place. 
Bivouack we here, most noble captain ? 

Cap. No ; on to yonder distantran ge ; 
There, by a mouldering cross 
Which marks the grave of some poor traveller, 
Stands a holy convent : 
Shelter and food to all, unasked, are given. 
On, comrades, on ! I am no salt sea-bird 
To build my nest on such a crag as this. 
At dawn, to-morrow, we'll renew our search. 

[Exeunt Soldiers, 



^/ 



26 T H E U T L A W . 

SCENE III.— Vieiv of the castle, 

Oscar concealed behind a rock. 

Enter Helvitio and Lady Isabella. 

Hel. Sweet sister, how can I repay thy love 
To one outlawed from all his fellow nobles — 
Alien from home and to his country's laws 1 — 
.Nay ; seek not thus to change my roving life ; 
It suits my wild and savage temper best. 
One kiss, sweet one: thou'lt seek our father's halls, 
And cheer the old man with thy gentle presence. 
We'll meet again this eve ; 
Have all prepared to meet thy brother's wishes. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter Oscar. 

Oscar, [soliloquizing.] Now, traitress, 
Can I prove thee false at last ; 
And to thy fond and doting lord I'll fly 
With these most cheering tidings. 
Revenge is sweet, and now I've won its taste. 



THE OUTLAW. 27 

Did'st thou, fond fool, think to reject my suit, 
And live unscathed? This to thy lord I'll say : — 
At eve iJie Lady Isahella meets her paramour ; 
With tears and sobs this morning I saio lliem parting, 
And weeping on his shoulder, thus she said : 
When night her sober mantle throws around 
Til meet thee onjhis spot 

Enter Amelia. 

Ame. [Suddenhj intercepts Os.] Who art thou, 
That, with slow and stealthy step, 
Art stealing round Malvino's lonely tower? 

Oscar. A way-worn traveller, gentle dame, 
Who seeks a shelter from the coming storm. 

Ame, Pursue the path that lieth straight before 
thee ; — 
Soon will St. Hilda's convent meet thine eye — 
There may'st thou shelter thee. — 
The bandit, 'tis reported, are abroad ; 
Their chief, the far-famed robber of the Rhine, 
Once more is free. 
Heaven shield thee on thy way. [Going , 



28 THEOUTLAW. 

Oscar. Stay but a moment ; who art thou ? 
Speak dame ; thou hast a goodly presence. 
And thy speech breathes of a gentle nature. 

Ame. Here in thine ear I'll whisper it. 

Oscar. [Starts.] Hah! 

Ame. Away, thou'rt safe ; but hasten I en- 
treat thee. 
E'en now I see their glittering weapons gleam 
With fitful lustre, as each vivid flash 
From the dark clouds glance o'er them. 

[Exit Oscar. 

Poor fool, thou flee'st as if a band of robbers 
were close upon thine heels ; and thus I took the 
high and mighty title of bandit's bride to fright 
thee from thy purpose. Now go I to the Lady 
Isabel. I will describe this loitering knave's ap- 
parel — his figure — speech. She may, perhaps, 
unravel this seeming mystery. He looked not 

like a traveller. 

[Exit. 



THEOtTTLAW. 29 

SCENE IV — A room in the castle. 
Lady Isabella conversing with Amelia. 

L. Isabel, Thou hast described that most de= 
ceitful friend. Well, my Amelia, when, at our 
Prince's court, I met his gaze, he did enquire my 
wealth and parentage — then sought my hand. 
His sordid suit rejected, with ill-disguised disdain, 
he vowed revenge. Alas ! I tremble when I think 
of it ; he was Alberto's friend ; and, when be- 
trothed to my lamented lord, I met this Oscar, 
he feigned a deep repentance. I believed and 
trusted him ; that faith hath placed me here. 
'Twas him abused my once kind husband's ear, 
with tales of my untruth ; and urged him on, 'till, 
wrought almost to madness, he threw me from 
him. On that very night, beneath my casement, 
came my poor Helvitio. I saw him, as in pensive 
mood I leant, thinking of my lord's anger. I 
knew him instantly — my poor, poor brother ! He 
came to hear some tidings of our father. My lord 

overheard our last few words, and seizing me with 

c 2 



30 THEOUTLAW. 

furious gesture, held his dagger to my bosom 5 
then Oscar tore him from me and thus said : — 
^Twere poor revenge to murder her, mi/ friend ; a 
lingering life of dose imprisonment will cure the 
lady'^s fancies. That same night I was immured 
here. I fear him, good Amelia ; haste to my 
brother's lurking place, and bring him tidings of 
coming danger ; I will keep "watch at yonder 
casement. 

[Exit Amelia. Lady Isabella advances to the 
window. 
In yonder sky the heavy clouds 
Are driven before the conquering wind ; 
And each bright star comes trembling into sight, 
Fair as when first I gazed upon their light ; 
But the dark clouds of sorrow that o'ershade 
My wearied soul — oh ! never can they flee. 
Since the bright sun of my existence set ! 

Enter Amelia. 

Ame. Thy brother says, dear lady, fear not for 
him ; he will be with you in one moment's time. 
Hark ! 'tis his step. 



THEOUTLAW. 31 

Enter Helvitio. 

L. Isabel. Welcome, my dear, dear brother ! 
But not a moment may'st thou stay with me ; 
I fear that spies are lurking near this spot. 
My jewels I have here collected for you — 
No^other treasures hath your Isabella. 

Hel, E'en keep them then to deck thy pretty 
self.— 
Nay, I'll not rob thee, love. 

L. Isabel. Stay, stay, Helvitio. 
My father holds my rich domain for me ; 
And if thou could'st but find some trusty hand 
To bear this little billet to him safely, 
It will procure the sum thou dost require. 
But, oh ! dear brother ! think on thy wild life. 

[Helvitio takes the letter. 

HeL My prison'd bird, thou singest very 
sweetly, — 
Yet may I not list to thy mournful song. 
Farewell, and seek a gay and gilded cage 
Ere some wild prowler of the desert catch thee. 

[Exit Helvitio 



32 THEOUTLAW. 

SCENE v.— A cave. 
Oscar and Alberto in conversation* 

Alber. This eve, thou said^st 1 

Oscar. Ay, ay^ this very eve. 
The storm is hush'd — all nature is combined 
To give his love a hearing ! 
See how that star twinkles, as if it winked to us 

and said — 
My friends, I see it all^ hut keep a lover^s secret. 
Thy wife is passing fair, my lord, — 
Accomplished in all that doth become 
A noble lady well ; but she lacks discretion : 
That rare costly gift hath been withheld 
So fair a casket. Pity 'tis, indeed, 
It holds not the rich gem. 

Know you her lover 1 He wears a manly brow, 
Embrown'd by foreign sun's ; a bold demeanour ; 
Eye that hath the softness of the dove, 
With the brave eagle's glance. 

Alher. Enough ; or I shall think thee some 
poor trader. 
Vaunting thy goods. 



THEOUTLAW. 33 

Oscar, My friend^ I pity thee ; in truth I do. 
Thou art an injured man. 

Can I behold thee thrown upon this rocky floor— 
Thy rival basking in thy wife's sweet smiles — 
Nor wish a dire revenge ? 

Alter. Oscar, beware ! thou call'st up a devil ! 

Oscar, Well ! then we shall be three to one, 
With thy ally to aid us ! 

Alter, Madmfti, desist ! 
My whirling brain's on fire, [Musing.] 
To plunge my dagger deep, deep into her bosom ! 
No ! 'twere too merciful ! Her paramour, 
Bathed in his blood, must meet her eye ; 
Then will I smile, and bid her kiss the lips 
That made her play the wanton, ere I plunge 
Her soul into perdition, there to meet him ! 
[To Oscar.] I am resolved ; on to the castle. 

[Eoceu?it, 
SCENE YL— The castle. 

Oscar and Alberto concealed near it. 

Alter. This is the place ! Thou see'st I'm 
very calm. 



34 THEOUTLAW. 

Oscar. I do, my friend , 
Such calms too oft forbode a coming tempest. 
Hah ! what heaid'st thou 'neath that open case- 
ment 1 

Alber. Naught ; naught but words ; 
My lady's gay to-night. 
I'll climb the broken wall and list awhile. 

l^Climhs uv. Decends rapidly. 
Let us begone ! 

Oscar. Alberto ! art thou mad 1 
'Tis now the very hour 

Alber. Not now, not now ! 
I cannot watch them now ! 
Hark ! hear'st thou not her voice again 1 
She prays for me ! for me — her lost lamented 

husband ! 
I do believe thee false, most false. Lord Oscar ! 
'Tis said thou wert an oft-rejected suitor. 
Speak, man or devil ! 

Oscar. This to me ! 
But I forgive you, my much injured friend. 
Let us away ; perhaps mine eyes deceived me : — 



T H E O U T L A W . 35 

It might have been the Lady Isabel and her 

attendant. 
I pray you pardon me for my too jealous love, 
And look upon thy friend with kinder eyes. 
Alberto, [im.patienthj .] E'en as you will. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE YII,—3Iorning, 

Enter Helvitio and Banditti. 

Hel, Here we'll await them. 
See, the dawn is breaking j yon mountain top 
Is tinged with the first smile of the fair sun ; 
All nature springs to greet it. 
Think ye, my friends, the pallid slave 
Who sinks, enervate, on his soft and silken couch, 
Feels the wild joy that thrills through all our 

frames 1 
Give me the morning air — the midnight revel— 
The toil — the tumult — and the battle strife, — • 
A quiet grave and most unquiet life ! 
Hark ! now I hear the rocky pathway echo 
With armed heels. Back ; and, concealed 



36 THEOUTLAW. 

Each near some friendly rock, remain 

Until the foe advance to seize me : 

Then, on to the rescue ! 

[^Band conceal themselves, — Helvitio folds /iw 
anns. 

Enter Soldiers. 

Capt, Said I not so? 
There stands the bandit chief, absorbed in reverie : 
Advance and seize him ! 

[Soldiers advance — Robbers slart forivard — a 
skirmish — Soldiers heaten of, loursued over 
the rocks hy the Banditti. — Scene closes. 



ACT in. 

SCENE I. — Apartment in a palace in Dresden* 
Duke Malvino reclining on a sofa. 
Enter Page, and kneeling p)7esents a letter. 
Page, Most noble duke ; a wild and savage 



man. 



THEOUTLAW. 37 

With garments all disorder'd, as if with travel, 
Pray'd at the porch to gain a quick admittance ; 
And being denied, produced this dust-soiPd billit. 
And bade us, by the love we bore his daughter, 
To place it safe within the Duke's own hand. 

Duke, [Takes the letter. 1 My Isabella ! 
My poor, wretched child, it is thine hand ; 
Oh ! would thou wert with thy old father. 

[Reads.] Six thousand marks 

Ah ! perchance to endow a convent. 

[Tb Page.] Bid my steward give six thousand 

marks, 
With quick dispatch, unto the messenger. 

[Exit Page. 

My child, could'st thou not serve thy God as well 
In comforting thy lone and aged parent % 
My son an outlaw ; daughter thus immured, 
Within a convent's cold and cheerless walls. 
Oh ! what are wealth and rank but glittering toys. 
Without one child to bid my heart rejoice ! 



38 T H E O U T L A AV . 



Enter Page. 



Page. My lord, the money hath been paid. 

Duke, 'Tis well. 

Page. Pardon me, my lord, for speaking ; 
But it is said the famous Robber of the Rhine, 
But lately captured, hath been brought, in chains, 
To wait thy judgment. 

Duke. Alas ! alas ! the penalty is great of 
worldly power : — 
Must I condemn this man to death 1 
Take the bright cup of life from his parched lips, 
And make his wife a widow, and his orphans 
A bye- word and a stain upon the earth ? 
It must be so ! Would that my aged head 
Was laid in peace beneath the sheltering marble ; 
There are but few to weep for me, 
And those — alas ! I weep for them. 

SCENE II.— Street in Dresden. 
Enter Citizens. 

1st Citizen. So the noted robber's safe at lastt 
2nd Cit. Thinkest thou he will be hung? 



T H E O U T L A W . 39 

1st Cit. Aye if he has a neck to hold the rope, 
His fate is certain. To-day, at twelve o'clock, 
His pranks are ended. 

27id Cit, Hark ! 'tis the time ; 
I hear the coming crowd. Stand back 
And let us both look on the show. 

Enter Crowd, Soldiers, <^-c. 
Oscar with a rope round Ms neck. 

1st Cit, A villanous countenance ! 

2nd Cit, A most bloody one ! 

1^^ Cit, So wags the world ! One day at liberty, 
The next, caught like an ape, with noose about 

the neck. 
Heaven! should we prove so tight a neck cloth 

2nd Cit, Thou'rt safe, my friend ; 
Heaven, in forming thee, forgot the neck. 
Thou'lt live to good old age 
If apoplexy does not catch thee napping. 

1st Cit, Trul}^, friend, you need not mock my 
goodly size. 



40 THEOUTLAW. 

When thou an apt resemblance art of some lean 

dog, 
Snarling" and fighting over a marrow bone. 

2nd Cit. Truce, a truce. Come, let us to the 
show, 
A man is not hung every day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE llL—3Iarket-pIace. 

Duke seated on a temporary tlirone — Oscar, the 
supposed Robber petitioning, 

Oscar. Your highness, listen but one moment 
to me : 
My name is Oscar ; — know ye not Alberto's friend? 
'Tis but a week since I have parted from him. 
I am an innocent and injured man ; 
Imprison'd, manacl'd, and led to judgment : 
For what offence, most mighty Duke ? 
Look I so like a robber, that, wand'ring 
By a rude and rugged cliff that o'erhung the sea, 
I should be seized for that famed robber who so oft 



THE OUTLAW. 41 

Hath struck terror into the bosom of the brave 1 
Whose name, a bng-bear with which mothers 
Fright their babes lo slumber? 
Look at me once again ; I am lord Oscar ! 
Perhaps some here may know me. — 
Are there none, none of my towns-men present ? 
I do beseech thee to release me, Duke. 
Duke, Away, most wretched man ! 
Thou dost abuse mine ear with thy false tale : 
The lord Alberto's dead! 
Off to his doom with the vile slave ! 

[Oscar is hurried off. 

SCENE IN,— View of the Castle. 
Enter Lady Isabella anl Helvitio. 

Lady Isabel' a. What madness prompted thee,, 
Helvitio, to this spotl 
I tremble, lest the much-abused law 
Should seize thee in thy sister's arms. 

Helvitio. No, trembler, no : Helvitio's safe ! 
The Bandit chief hath met at last his doom, — 

D 2 



42 THEOUTLAW. 

Thou doubt'st me? Truly thou may'st well, 
When a corporeal form I stand before thee ! 
I will unravel this strange mystery : — 
A man was found, lurking about the spot, 
Where I was said to hide, — 
And, seized by those who sought my life. 
They gave to him a most exalted fate : — 
He died upon a lofty scaffolding. — 
Nay, droop not, Isabella ! I could not save ! 
I heard the tale hours after his sad fate. 
Rouse thee, dear one ! speak, speak to thine own 
brother ! 

[Helvitio supports his Sister, 

L. Isabel, [faintly.] It was lord Oscar ! 

Enter Alberto, disguised as a Hermit, 

Alber, [furious loith passion.] Die ! 

[Stabs Lady Isabella. — Helvetio tov late 
to arrest the stroke, springs upon Alberto. 
Lady Isabella for a moment revives and 
sees her brother in danger, 

L, Isabel, My brother ! save thee ! oh, fly I 



THE OUTLAW. 43 

Alher, Her brother ! [Drops the dagger.^ 

Helv, Murderer ! defend thyself I 
Helvitio seeks, not an assassin's blood, but in an 

open strife I 
Coward I dost thou refuse 1 Thus, then ! — 
Alher, Hold, hold ! I am thy sister's husband ! 
[ Tears off his disguise* 
[To the body o/Lady Isabella.] Sweet saint I 
Thus I revenge thee ! 

[Springs from the rock. 

Enter Amelia. 

My lady, what now 1 My gentle lady I 
Great Heaven ! why lies she thus ? — blood, blood f 
Helvetio, is this thy work ? Oh, no ; forgive me. 

[ Weeps, 
Helv. Amelia, thy lov'd mistress lies there 
dead ! 
Aye ! murdered by her husband ! 
The deed accomplished, in maniac mood 
He sprang o'er yonder rock ere I could save him^ 
Or revenge her death ! 



44 THEOUTLAW. 

'Tvvas said he went abroad and there had died : 
'Twas false — most false ; — he had returned, 
Deceived my sister with his feigned death, 
And loitered here [to co7yse] to prove thee false. 
Sweet saint ! his jealous madness urged him on 
to this. 

Ame, [weeping,] Oh ! my lord Helvetio ! by this 
dear one, 
Whose blood cries up to warn thee, 
Fly to thy father ! for his mercy sue : 
He hath the power — the will to pardon thee. 
In the proud heir of thy most princely house 
What man can recognize the outlawed boy 
Who plunged his dagger in a kindred's bosom ? 

HeL True, true, Amelia ; 
To meet my doom or pardon I go. 
Let my poor Isabella be the sad partner 
Of my weary journey. 

SCENE V. — Palace in Dresden — an apartment. 

Duke, Attendants. 
Duke. What means this tumult in my peace- 
ful halls 1 



THEOUTLAW. 45 

Out, knaves, and see what turbulent uproar 

Thus breaks upon my quiet. 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Filter Page. 

Page, [sadhj.] Your highness, be prepared ; 
There are evil tidings ; grief is at your door. 
My noble master be prepared to hear them. 

Duke. Boy, grief is my inmate ! 
Years have rolled on, and yet she loiters. 
Think ye a greater evil can befal a wretched 

father, 
Who for years hath mourned an absent child, — - 
A lov'd but outlaw'd son 1 

Speak on, nor fear, though death were in thy 
tidings. 

Page. The lady Isabella is sick to death : 
She sends you tidings of her hopeless illness. 

Duke. Dying ! haste — haste ! 
My horses — bring them quickly hither ! 
I'll on to thee, my poor deserted child ! 
Why stand ye loit'ring 1 death may meet mine 
eyes I — 



46 T H E U T L A W , 

Away— away \ this is no time for tears ! 
Page, Too late^ I fear, great Duke ; 

My lady is dead. 

[Duke sinks into his chair, 

Duke, My child ! my child ! 

Page, Your highness, pardon me ; 
Her sole attendant waits below — 
The Lady Isabella's trusted servant, dame Amelia. 

Duke, Bring her to me, we'll mourn together. 
Exit Page. — Duke remains silent in deep grief. 

Enter Amelia. 

Ame, Great Duke, thus far I've travel'd 
With a grief that weighs my sinking spirit to 

the earth ; 
You mourn a child, and I a cherished mistress ; 
One who to me was child, protectress, friend. 
Sole relic of that much abused saint. 
Whom, I trust, receives the just reward 
Of her sad trials here. 
Upon thy bounty now I throw myself. 



T II E O U T L A W . 47 

Duhe» Receive it good Amelia ; 
All my possessions were too poor a recompence 
For thy tried service. 

Ame, Your highness, I thank you humbly. 
One request my gentle mistress made in her last 

sickness : — 
^' Bear me," she said, ^' when dead, unto my fa- 
ther's halls, 
That one prized tear may fall upon my corpse. 
And hallow it. Oh ! bear me to my father !'' 
I have complied, most faithfully, my lord ; 
Her saintly form rests in thy tapestried chamber, 

Duke, Oh, Heaven ! I thank thee for this sad, 
sad blessing ! 
My good Amelia, give me thine arm ; 
Bring me to my child ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE VI.— A small Room in the Ducal Palace^ 
Helvitio alone, — Enter Amelia. 

Hel, How bears my father this said stroke, 
Amelia? 



48 THE OUTLAW. 

Sunk he beneath the blow 1 

Alas! I fear his aged heart is broken. 

Ame. Age hath no heart to break ; yet, in his 
countenance, 
I saw a calm so desolate, my lord Helvetio, 
The most clam'rous grief were nought to it. 

HeL Can I then break upon his solitude — 
Disturbing, with new grief, his mourning soul 1 
No, no ; I may not — dare not : I will remain 

concealed 
'Till time hath given balm to his sad heart. 
Go thou, Amelia, comfort my old father. 

Ame, I go, my lord ; 
Should'st thou have need of ought, touch this 

small bell ; 
'Twill bring one quickly to thee who may be 
trusted. [Exit Amelia. 

HeL Once more an inmate in my father's 
halls I 
How throbs my breast with an unknown tumult ! 
How oft I've passed my childish days 
In roving through these wide halls 5 



THEOUTLAW. 49 

Or, in this same apartment, sitting and listening to 

my nurse's tales. 
With wondering ears and open mouth'd surprise. 
At each wild legend. 

Seems it so long since that gay childish era 1 
Alas ! the boy has merged into the man. 
Grown old in recklessness and sin, — 
Hah ! who disturbs mel is it thou, Amelia? 

Enter Amelia, agitated. 

Ame, My lord, my lord ! haste, haste ! 
Your dying father calls on his son, hopeless of 

seeing him ! 
Grief hath preyed heavily on his aged heart ; 
I found him senseless by my lady's corpse 5 
Assistance came at my shrill screams ; 
We bore him to his chamber. 
Called in the leech, who shook his head and 

sighing, 

Took his station aside his highness' bed. 

All hope is o'er ; thy father, weeping, calls upon 

his child, 

s 



50 THEOUTLAW. 

His Isabella; then bids his servants ride express 
For his long exiled son. 

Hel, Lead on, Amelia ; exiled though I was 
by my stern father, — 
Brutus like condemning his only son, — 
Yet my long exile o'er even justice cannot claim 

again a victim : 
My heart yearn's for my aged parent's blessing. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE VII. — Ducal apartments^ 

Duke, reclining en a bed — Physician, Attendants. 

Enter Amelia and Helvitio. 

Duke, More would I say, but my lungs are 

wasted. 
Sinking 'neath unwonted efforts. 
If my son returns, give true allegiance to my 

rightful heir : 
My blessing rests upon him. 

[Helvitio springs to the led. 



THEOUTLAW. 51 

Heh My father ! 

Duke* Who calls 1 what voice is that ? 
My eyes are dim, yet sounded it most wondrously 

like his ; — 
My son ! my son ! 

HeL Oh ! pardon me, my father ! 
Alas^ how cold thy hand strikes to my heart ! 
Live, live ! oh, live ! that I may show the world 
How changed Helvitio is ! 

Duke, My son, where art thou ? 
Nearer ! still more near ! — let me feel your hand ! 
Bless you ! stay, go not yet. — 
I cannot see thee ! — throw hack the hangings ! — 
Too late ! too late ! [Pauses.l 

Night creeps apace : my son, reign over my peace- 
ful subjects. 
Farewell ! I go to meet thine angel sister ! [Bies, 



END OF THE OUTLAW. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



E 2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



CAN THE VOICE DIE 1 

A vision came in the starry night, 

When I in slumber lay— 
The slumber free from earthly blight 

When the soul hath purer sway. 

On the verge of the spirit world I stood 
'Mid the holy and the pure ; 

Around me, light in a living flood, 
Whose blaze I could scarce endure. 

I saw the bright form of seraphim, 
As I knelt with the forgiven. 

And sang the ever-enduring hymn — - 
The praise of the God of heaven. 

Yet my spirit was sad : alone, alone, 
I seemed in that happy sphere ; 

I pined for a lost familiar tone — 
A voice that on earth was dear. 



56 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Hark ! a new gush of melody ! 

Oh ! glorious, glorious strain ! 
That voice — it rose cheerly and joyfully, 

Welcoming me again. 



MEDORA'S SONG. 

Ah ! let me rest thus at thy side, 

As I was wont of yore, 
And touch my Lyre, whose every chord 

Is filled with love's sweet lore ; 

And clasp thine hand within mine own- 

The hand I love to press, 
And feel thou hast returned to me, 

In all thy faithfulness. 

'Twas sad to raise my eyes alone, 

Unanswered by thine own, 
To listen until sinking hope 

Had lost thy faintest tone* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 

To feel the magic of thy voice 

But come to me in dreams, 
As rest the shadows of sweet flowers 

Upon the moon-lit streams. 

That pleasant voice that speaks to me 

Of passion's fervent hour; 
Hours which o'er life's worst darkness fling 

Aflfection's soothing power. 

As morning hues upon the sea 

Seem blended with the sky, 
From which it borrows all the tints 

That on its calm waves lie. 

So blended seems my soul with thine, 

So borrow I sweet thought. 
In gazing on those deep-soul'd eyes. 

So with love's mysteries fraught. 

Then let me rest thus by thy side. 

And feel that thou art near, 
For never, till we parted, love. 

Knew I thou wert so dear. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

SONG. 

I remember, I remember, tbough it seems to me 
a dream, 

Or a sunbeam, fleeting o'er the wave, that 
brighten'd 'neath its beam. 

Dost thou ask what I remember 1 'twas a smile 
from one I knew, 

And a glance from a blue merry eye, and words 
that seem'd so true. 

Now I press my burning hand, to a brow that 
throbs with pain, 

Whilst mem'ry brings each kindly look and ac- 
cent back again. 

I was happ3^, I was happy then, in gazing on 

his face — 
Nor would I wish that time should e'er, those 

words and looks efface ; 
For I feel, when in my weariness I sit and weep 

alone. 
That mem'ry is the only good I now may call 

my own. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 59 

I remember, T remember, like sweet music soft 

and low, 
A voice that made my pulses thrill, and bade my 

pale cheek glow ; 
And the words, the words then uttered (oh ! could 

they be but art T) 
When death hath summon'd me away, thou'lt 

find upon mine heart 
We parted, yes, we parted, like a rudely wrenched 

chain. 
As if each broken link and clasp could ne'er unite 

again. 

They said that he was weary of a love that could 

not change— 
They told me that his fickle heart a trifle would 

estrange ; 
And I spoke with bitter scornfulness, in words I 

deeply rue, — 
How could I think a heart like his could ever 

prove untrue 1 



60 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

ON LISTENING TO THE MUSIC OF THE 
TELEGRAPHIC WIRES. 

Viewless spirit I what melody divine 

In the 'mid air now swellethl 
Lost PleidI is the heavenly harping thine 1 

That sighing cadence of such sorrow telleth, 
As if thou for thy star-gemmed crown did'st pine. 

Swells the loud peal in a triumphal strain. 

Until the welkin ringeth. 
Faintly, and mournfully it breathes again I 

Lost, lost ! forever lost ! Thou singeth 
For earthly love, that bringeth nought but pain! 



IMPROMTU 

ON AN 

ENGRAVING OF THE BETROTHED SPIRITS. 

Hist ! 'tis faint music swelleth on the air ; 
And, by the glow-worm light, a Pageant fair, 
With myrtle chaplets 'mid their locks entwined, 
Float softly by, like the sweet song of nightin- 
gales combined. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 61 

Spirits of the betrothed ! freed from the thrall 
Of the dull earth I Pure as ere woman's fall ; 
Their love all spiritual. With gentle smile, 
Backwards they cast their eyes, and murmur, 
dear ones, yet awhile ! 

Glide on thou purely beautiful! thy forms 
Float in mid ether — calm above the storms 
Of thy heart's tempest; whilst,with strcamingeyes. 
Thy earth-bound lovers kneel, and mourn thy 
progress through the skies. 



TO THE ABSENT. 
Come to me, love ; knowest thou the dew is falling, 
And the pure star-light gleams o'er hill and dale'? 
Come, ere my lips are weary with their calling, 
And the soft check thou lovest turneth pale. 

Why dost thou linger? clouds are gathering- 
round me. 
But not the summer's gentle threatnings lour ; 
''Tis the heart's gloom, dearest, ere grief hath 
bound me 
In his strong fetters; — come, and joy restore. 

F 



62 MISCELLANEOtTS POEMS. 

Call I in vain'? my children, the young voices 
Join to your mother's ! bid wild echo ring 

With the loved name that still my heart rejoices. 
As in our love's first fair and joyous spring. 

Would I could hear his steps, as music cheering 
To the lone watching heart — bid him draw near, 

And from the brow, pale with love's anxious 
fearing, 
Kiss the deep sadness and starting tear ! 

Hark ! 'tis his step ! quick, quick, and haste to 
meet him ! 
E'en through the darkness I can mark his 
gaze. 
Hasten, my children ! warmly, kindly greet him. 
Home safe ! to lieaven now give thy grateful 
praise. 



THE LOVE OF OTHER DAYS. 

(fROBI the GERMAN.) 

It was the sunset hour, and richly fell the gleam, 
In beauty blended o'er the earth, rose-hued and 
golden beam ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 63 

It played about a casement, an old man rested 

there, 
But pallid were his aged lips, as was his whited 

hair. 

Calm seemed the^old man's slumber, — why drew 

they back in dread? 
It was the calmness of the grave, the slumber of 

the dead. 
We tremble at the warning, that tells us from the 

earth, 
A spirit hath, in joyfulness, sprung to a holy birth ! 

Within his withered fingers, clasped with a dying 

hold. 
There seemed a gem of beaut}^ ; — did the old man 

prize the gold 1 
Oh ! shame on such base feeling ! when they 

loos'd the stiffened hand, 
A lovely pictur'd face was there, a dark and 

braided band. 

Oh ! love unchanged, unchangeable ! time hath 
o'er thee no power, — 



64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And pleasant was the old man's death, at sunset^* 

glowing hour ! 
Amidst the fields of memory, the sorrow's course 

may run, 
The sun of other days can shed light o'er the 

closing one. 

STANZAS. 
^' Tell me. Spirit of the Sea, 

Why the ocean's murmur dwells. 
Hidden in coils so cunningly. 

In the breast of the couch-like shells 1'' 

And the voice of the Spirit said : 

^' Hidden from me is the mystery 
Of the ocean's mighty bed." 

I asked the Spirit of the Flowers, 

Why it closed each little bell 
When the sun had left its bowers^ 

And the shades of evening fell. 

And the Spirit answered me : 

^' Seek not to know — a higher power 
Hath will'd it so should be." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 65 

I turned to the Zephyr near : — 
'' Light Spirit, oh, tell me true, — 

Whence came the wind you wafted here 1 
Tell me, where will it wander to?" 

And the voice of the Zephyr said : 

^' I wander over the earth so fair, 
By Creation's Law still led," 

Then my soul was sad with awe, 

Of the solemn mysteries, 
Of the Earth and Sky, and the Law 

That governed tlie mighty seas! 

Then the Hidden Spirit spoke, 

Within my soul, of the Deity, 
Who the bonds of chaos broke. 

*' Praise, praise to His holy power, 

Forever on earth be given 1 
Seek, mortal, ere thy parting hour, 

To know thy God in Heaven ! 



p a 



66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

TO MARY. 

Come, my sweet one, 'tis thy slumbering hour j 
With clasped hands bend humbly to that Power — 
The Giver of all good, all joy to tliee : 
Who, my young child, can that kind influence bet 

Mother, I look on the glowing sky, — 

On the bright stream that bubbles and gushes by; 

On the earth, with its beautiful flowers and trees, 

And I hear sweet music upon the breeze ! 

The birds have a voice of song and glee, 

But tlie Power you speak off I cannot see ! 

Is He on earth, 'mid the flowers so sweet 1 

Mother, his foosteps may I meet, 

And thank Him for all His love to me ? 

Oh! mother, wh}/ look you so mournfully? 

My gentle one : — when your young bird died, 
Remember how sadly you sobb'd and cried? 
When its notes were mute, nor answered your 

glee, 
Look'd you not then most mournfully? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 67 

With a mother's anxious grief I wept, 

To think that, perhaps, while my lov'd one slept, 

Her spirit might pass to that heaven ahove, 

Where dwelleth in glory the Power of Love ; 

But not till you pass through the shades of death, 

^nd I feel no more your gentle hreath 

On my cheek — soft, glowing and warm, my child, 

And miss your sweet looks and accents mild, — 

Not till then may you meet with that holy Power, 

And 1 wept to think of our parting hour. 

SONG. 
There's a smile on thy lips, Mary, 
Like the gleam from a sunny sky 

On a mirror'd lake, 

When its waters break 
Into ripples, and dimple by. 

Tliere's a tear 'neath thy dropping lid. 
Like the dew by a rose-leaf hid, 

When the mid-day sun, 

From all but that one, 
The tears of the night-spirit chid. 



68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Yet I trust not thy smile, my fair. 
For the waters, when troubled, are 

Too rough for my skill, 

And a tear at will 
A lady too often may bear. 

Yet 'tis sweet, in the sunny beam. 
To sail over some placid stream, — 
As away we glide 
On the sunny tide. 
Of bowers of roses to dream. 



A PENITENT'S ADDRESS TO THE MUSE. 

And have I then forgotten thee, my spirit's early 

love. 
Nor listened to thy gentle voice, soft breathing 

from above 1 
Forgive, forgive, sweet poesy, — thy truant lover 

hear. 
And lend, to his repentant prayer, once more a 

lenient ear. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 69 

'Tis true Pve bowed at many a shrine, and bent 

a willing- knee, — 
But the poet's soul, in each fair form, saw but a 

type of thee ! 
Awhile the heauteous picture traced, by Fancy's 

graceful hand, 
Enthrall'd my senses, and I bowed to Love's 

supreme command. 
Forgive, forgive thine erring one, the phrenzied 

dream is o'er ! 
Those lips that breathed of summer flow^ers, no 

voice of music bore, — 
Those eyes that burned with passions light were 

false, I broke the spell ! 
How could I deem my spirit's love in such a form 

could dwell ! 
As soon upon the bounding wave, fair nature's 

gorgeous dress, 
Of wreathed buds and fragrant plants, may spread 

in loveliness ; 
As the poet's soul, enthrall'd, forget its home, its 

heavenly birth, 
And bow each glorious attribute to a mere child 

of earth ! 



70 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

LOVE, REASON, AND TRUTH. 

^' Where, oh where's the chain to fling, 
One that will bind Cupid's wing ?" 
On the wings of the wandering breeze, 

Love joyed to float away, 
Forgetting those who were ill at ease, 

While he was off* at play. 

Venus vowed that it should not last, — 
'Twas time that he went to school. 

For his boyhood in ignorance had past, 
And he never had learn'd a rule. 

She sprang in her chariot of blue, — 
(It was drawn by a turtle dove,) 

Of a serious, sensible dame she knew, 
Who might teach a lesson to Love. 

In tears Love came — he did n^t dare 

To refuse, but felt in a fret ; 
She wiped off* his tears with her golden hair, 

And said, now be quiet my pet ! 

They soon alighted at Reason's gate, — 
Truth stood at the open door j 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 7l 

Come back ! cried Cupid ; 'tis not too late ! 
Oh ! Reason is such a bore. 

And Truth hath a look, oh, mother dear. 

That I never yet could brook ; 
She chills me, — and Reason, too much I fear, 

I never can learn her book ! 

So fretted and fumed the petted child, 

As his mother turned to go ; — 
She said : my boy is a little wild, 

You had better hide his bow. 

Alas, for Reason ! alas, for Truth ! 

Would we know what both befel ? 
He hood-winked Reason, that artful youth, 

And tumbled Truth in a well. 



SONG. 

Come, wreathe round my brow 

Those pale, sweet flowers ! 

Were they not made for the festal hours. 

When the cup, like a sparkling- ruby glowsj 



72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And the rich red wine to the brim o'erflows, 

And the heart, like a bird 

From its thraldom free, 

Flutters and carols so joyfully 1 

Then twine round my forehead those fragrant 

flowers, 
They were made, like young beauty, for festal 

hours. 

Come, cheer up my fairest ! 

Each flowing curl 

I will twine with a chaplet of snowy pearl 5 

Not a gem 'mid their raven hue must shine, — 

Thou would 'st dim them, my Love, with those 

orbs of thine ! 
Nay ! shade not their beam 
Mid the clear blue skies ; — 

When the bright sun sinks the pale flower dies I 
Then twine round ray forehead those fragrant 

flowers. 
They were made, like young beauty, for festal 

hours. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 73 

TO THE AUTHOR OF '' A NEW READING 
OF OLD SONGS." 

Dear Illustrator of old rhymes. 
Thou mindest me of ancient times. 

When you and I together 
Roved, seeking butterflies and flowers — 
Despising damp — forgetting hours — 

With hearts light as a feather. 

NoWj we have toils and cares and troubles ; 
Yet, still, time finds us blowing bubbles. 

And spreading nets and cages : 
You read old songs another way, 
And well and quaintly do you play 

The gamut of mirth's pages. 

I, though not blue, nor deeply read. 
Have rashly dared the muse to wed, — 

Forgetful of the penance : 
An empty purse to those who've sung. 
An attic, high as Haman hung: — 

What care I for the menace ! 



74 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My heart is light — ray garret clr}^. 

And something nice when friends are nigh ; 

And you, my frolic brother, 
Have added to my treasured store 
Of pleasant thoughts an item more, 

And helped me care to smother. 

Thus let us while each idle hour, 
Pluck here a fruit — cull there a flower, 

Bid life new impulse borrow. 
And innocently pass our time 
Till called unto a happier clime. 

That knows not care nor sorrow. 



THE IMPATIENT. 

Why stays he thus 1 he would be here 
If his love equalled mine ; — 

Methinks, had I one fond caged dove, 
I would not let it pine ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 75 

He comes no more to see me, — 
(He called me his wild flower,) 

I hear that winning sound no more, — 
But, oh ! I feel its power. 

I'm weary w^ith my watching — 

Because I watch in vain ; — 
But woman's lieart must suffer much 

In solitude and pain. 

What is it keeps him from me ? 

Oh ! if my eyes are dim, 
He might have known 'twas weariness. 

In watching long for him. 

And if my cheek has faded. 

Kind words could make it hioom ; 

His voice could call my spirit back. 
Though sinking to the tomb. 

But now I'll weep no more — 

Why should I weep in vain % 
Oh ! robe me in a garb of pride. 

Deck me with jewel'd chain ! 



76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I'll seek, in halls of splendor, 

Forgetfalness and Scorn ; 
The blood of my own haughty line, 

Hath ill liis falsehood borne. 

The red-rose on my forehead, 
Shall brightly bloom at eve ; 

Farewell, farewell, false love of mine, 
No longer will I grieve. 

Scarce had the maiden spoken, 
When, springing to her side, 

A manly form kneels at her feet, — 
Oh ! where was woman's pride % 



^' TO DIE IN SUMMER'S PRIDE, ALAS!" 

I am wear}'^, I am weary, my frame is rack'd with 

pain, — 
Upon my fever'd 'couch I lie — shall I e'er rise 

again ? 
My pulses throb thro' every vein, — faint, faint 

and sad my heart. 
But the grievous agony of all, it is with thee to 

part. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 77 

From thee, beloved, to sever ! oh, must I feel this 

grief? 
Is there no healing balm, no hope of a relief? 
Thy voice at midnight hour, thro' restless 

dreams 1 hear, — 
How blest if that deep loving voice once more 

might meet mine ear. 

I would not that th}^ memory should dwell on 

this sad hour ! 
No ; think of me when pleasure calls each votary 

to her bower ; — 
In thine hours of mirth and gladness, when music 

floats around. 
Think, then, thou hearest the lov'd one's voice 

in every gentle sound. 

Cherish her memor}^ fondly ! oh ! was she not to 

thee 
A dream of joy, a being full of love and constancy? 
Upon this earth, beloved, once — only once, we 

find 

Soul meeting soul ! — yet must we die ! this bitter 

truth I find. 

G 2 



78 MISCELI^ANEOUS POEMSr 

NoWj fare thee well ! my pulses are faint ; before 

my 6)^68 
Shadowy forms are hovering, and misty clouds 

arise ; 
Oh ! could I clasp thine hand once more, and feel 

thy sweet warm breath 
Upon my cold and pallid lips, love then might 

conquer death ! 



SONG. 

'' Hew ! quoties fidem, 
Mulatosque Deos flebit." — Horace. 

Bring me roses, red roses, to fling o'er my wine, 
As I fling from my heart this false image of thine ; 
Their fragrance alone on my lips now may dwell ; 
I've broken the last tie, I've thrown off love's spell. 
Ere the last leaf has faded, the last drop is shed, 
Will the passion, once cherished, for ever have 
fled. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. K9 

I awake, as from sleeping the manner springs 
From his hammock, when loudly the storm o'er 

him sings. 
And the breakers are dashing white foam round 

the prow 
Of the vessel, that strikes, e'er sleep leaveth his 

brow. 
Ah ! the waters that close o'er that lone seaman's 

head, 
Are calm, to the bosom whose last hope hath fled ! 

Yet bring me the wine-cup, let music breathe on ; 

Shall my cheek, for the lost smile of woman, 
grow wan ? 

No ! we'll part whilst the perfume of flowers floats 
around ; 

And I'll drown thy false words in the harp^s ring- 
ing sound, — 

As the famed bird of beauty that pines for its mate, 

And mourns, in sweet numbers, its nest desolate ! 



80 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



TO R- 



" If, in this world of breathing harm, 
There lurk one universal charm, 
'Tis the pure kiss of infant love." 

I gaze on thee, my own fair child. 
With thy graceful form and actions wild, — 
(As you bound, like a fawn, on the grassy plain, 
Stopping each moment to laugh again,) 
With a throbbing breast as away you rove, 
A heart so full of a mother's love ! 

Thy sunny smile and thy childish glee. 
Come o'er my soul like sweet minstrelsy ; 
And I fly from the world's delusive bliss, 
To lighten my heart with a sight like this ! 
Yes, my sweet one, thy faintest tone, 
Is a blessed pledge, — I am not alone. 

Can it be, that young heart should ever swell 
With the pangs that too oft in my bosom dwell ? 
Must that fair young brow, and that beaming eye, 
Be dimmed by the world, and the wearied sigh, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 81 

And in secret droop o'er the ruined hope, — 
Fair child, must thou e'er with such sorrows cope? 

Thou mustj sweet one ! too well I know 
That sorrow's the portion of all below. 
But we'll heed it not, for full soon, alas I 
Will thy joyous moments of pleasure pass. 
Then come, let us play in the sunny beam, 
And not of the world of sorrow dream. 



'' WINTER, WITH SNOW-FLAKES ON HIS 
HOARY BROW." 

The voice of the Frost-King- is on the breeze : 
He comes ! — wo I wo ! for the leafy trees ! 
They mourn, for his breath is scatt'ring the pride 
Of their summer apparel on every side. 
The Violet and Columbine both are dead. 
And the Cardinal's gone from its marshy bed, — 
The Willow is weeping above their tomb, 
For the lost ones were fair in their summer bloom. 



82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMSc 

'Tis Winter ! dread Winter! — I know him now— 

The snow-flakes are thick on his aching brow ; 

He exults o'er the autumn, whose early death 

Was caused by the cold from his icy breath. 

Nay ! ring not thy sleigh-bells — I ^vill not go ! 

Your sled may glide on,— I hate the snow. 

You have swept all my trees of their glorious hues, 

You have frozen the twilight's fragrant dews, 

The locust and humming bird both are away — 

The land is desolate I — why should I stay 1 

Was it an echo, borne on the breeze. 

As it murmured in sadness, thro' leafless trees ? 

Was it that voiceless tone that said. 

Stay I — And I answered, with whom ? — the dead ? 

The dead ! their remembrance and grief may 

die, 
As the flowers of the Summer forgotten lie 5 
But the buried thoughts we had deemed at rest. 
Burst from their secret tomb — the breast ; — 
And they whisper, (those spirits of happier hours,) 
Heed not the faded leaves and flowers ! 
Come with us to the lonely wood, 
Nourish us fondly in solitude ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Joy we may give, tho' we have no spell 
To bring back the past ye have lov'cl so well : 
Stay ! And hope brightened the wintry sky, 
With so rosy a hue — that — could I deny'? 



83 



VOICE OF THE THUNDER-CLOUD. 

From my home, 'mid storms I spring, — 

Child of the summer day, — 
O'er the wither'd buds I wildly fling 
Dew, from the brush of my sable wing ; 
The birds, when I flee, leap forth and sing, 

As I rove o'er my trackless way. 

Afar, o'er the sea I glide"; 

The billows I unchain, 
Till they lash the struggling vessel's side ; 
A wreck on the wave I see her ride ! 
Then, groaning, plunge in the foaming tide^ 

Whilst I lighten with joy the main. 



84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Heaven's bright smile I veil, 

Each planet's sparkling gaze, — 
With jealous care — 'mid the sky I sail, 
(By the wild winds borne, Avith moan and wail,) 
I shadow the moon, now faint and pale. 

And my offspring — the lightning — plays. 

I strike with a fiery dart, 

Ere they hear my dreaded tone, 
The loved and the loving ; I could not part 
The bands that were woven from heart to heart ; 
But I knew they were free from the worlding's 
art. 

And 't\yere worse to live alone. 

Alas ! alas ! that I bear 

Such sorrow o'er'the earth ! 
When I strive to lighten the thicken'd air, 
And freshen the buds, with anxious care 
My path is followed, and fell despair, 

Where I looked for joy and mirth. 

But, tho' high my destiny. 
The chilling north-west blast 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 85 



Comes sweeping o'er the ruffled sea. 
The brown leaves are whirling from bush and tree. 
The birds take wing and afar they flee, — 
And I feel that ray reign is past* 



ON A VIOLET. 

I placed thee on my breast, sweet flower; 
There, thou did'st live thy little hour, 
I pluck 'd thee not from nature's bower — 
But he — whom I love best. 
Gave thee to me, with sunny smile. 

One quiet moonlight night : 
And though itseemelli a long while, 
I cannot think that ought of guile 

Could dim that smile's pure light. 

I prized the gift, but oh ! much more 
The sun-bright smile his features wore: 
Ah ! if these Iiappy days are o'er, 
Still of that smile I'll dream. 

H 



so MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

In vision, it will come to bless, 

When lengtli'nlng shadows fall j 
And twilight, with her sombre dress 
Stealeth around in loneliness, 
'Twill shed a gleam o'er all. 



Thence it came. 



That she, whom all men praisM, and whom myself, 
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye 
The dust that did offend it." — Shakspeare. 

TO CORA. 



By the memories deep and thrilling. 

By each slumbering chord of joy, 
By each fond hope of the future — - 

Hope's absence may destroy ; 
Return, my being's idol, 

Whilst life's in each warm vein ; 
Return — return to love's true shrine, 

I call thee back again. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 87 

Thou art the spirit of my dreams, 

My being's very soul ; 
I think of thee till passion spurns 

All reason — all control ; 
I'll hold thee yet the dearer 

And strive with mingled art, 
(Art taught by Love) to win again 

That proud but gentle heart. 

I have gloried in thy name, love, 

I have trembled for thy weal, 
The eloquence of those dear lips 

Thro' every pulse I feel ; 
And when I list to others, and 

They name tliy treasured name, 
Mingled with praises of thy worth. 

Thy talents and thy fame. 

My kindling brow, my blushing cheek. 

My throbbing heart betray — 
That o'er my bosom love hath won 

A wild, unbounded sway. 



88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Return then, my beloved, 

Whilst life throbs in each vein. 

For death in life I suffer 'till 
Thou com'st to me again. 



INVOCATION. 

Stay, dear one, time may never bring 
Another moment on his wing 

So rich with bliss : 
See, 'mid the sun-lit Heavens on high 
Hang blushing clouds, a canopy 

Whose shadows kiss 
The trembling waves, that bound to meet 
The sun's last glances, ere they fleet 

Like visioned hopes. 
My own, my blest, mark how below 
The field and woodlands brightly glow ; 

Kind nature opes 
Her richest stores — 'tis a fair scene. 
And thou, of beauty art the queen, 

My lov'd, my dear 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 89 

Stay,' nor like that bright orb depart — 
Tliine eyes are to iny beating heart 

A sunny sphere — 
Thou wilt not ? cruel ! fare thee well ; 
Heed not my tears that gushing swell ! 

Far from my sight, 
Go, go — I would not bid thee stay, 
My life — my bliss thou bearest away, 

Good night — good night. 



THE DESERTED WIFE. 

I cannot sleep — I cannot rest, 
My weary heart is aching ; 

I watch the glowing of the West, 
I see the morning breaking. 

And then, I long again for night — 
For night, and then for morning. 

But ah 1 the smile that was my light 
Is turned to bitter scorning. 

H 2 



90 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS* 

May Heaven preserve me in this hour^ 
And keep me e'er from madness 

Uphold me with its strength 'ning power 
To bear this mortal sadness. 

Hush I hush, my babe, thy little moan,. 

And closer to me nestle. 
We now must struggle on alone 

With worldly sorrows wrestle. 

Alone, alone, my fatherless, 
We'll stem life's troubled ocean — 

Ah ! woe is me ! and sore distress ! 
And weary wild commotion. 

For he, who welcomed thee, my child^ 
With smiles and fond caresses, 

Another hath his love beguiled, 
Another's lip he presses. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 9i 



Hero. — " And here's another, 
Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, 
Containing her affection unto Benedick." — ^Shakspeare. 



TO 



Yes, love me for myself alone^ 
And love me very truly ! — 

Ye all are apt to promise this. 
When ye have loved but newly* 

Remember that this cheek will fade — 
Mine eyes lose all their brightness. 

And the fairy foot, you flatter now, 
In age — forget its lightness. 

I plight thee here an honest heart, 
A heart that feels sincerely — 

I never thought I could havelov'd 
As I do love thee — dearly. 

Then trust me, as I've trusted thee 

And with a love as real ; 
Nor fancy me a goddess born. 
Beware of the ideal. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Too soon, too soon, alas ! thou'dst find, 
IVIy birth-place not celestial. 

And from an angel, I would sink 
Into a sad terrestrial. 

Then let confiding faith be shown, 
And manly — honest feeling, 

" A leal light heart" can never throb 
With ought that needs concealing. 



THOUGHTS. 

My bosom once rejoiced to treasure, 
Hopes of many a joyous measure, 
Ah! poor bosom, thou hast known, 
What it was to find joy flown. 

Once my heart beat proudly, brightly, 
Beamed my eyes, more clearly, brightly 
Ah ! poor heart thy peace is o'er. 
Beams the sadden'd eye no more^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 93 

Life was once a bed of flowers, 
Joy reposed in sunny bowers ; 
Life— thy buds were but a snare. 
Thorns were hidden every where. 

Heaven ! I thought not of thy joys ! 
Pleas'd with this world's shining toys; 
Now — but thee alone I prize, 
Raise a suppliant to the skies. 



TO THE MESSAGE BIRD. 

Bird of beauty, whose bright plumage 
Sparkles with a thousand dyes, 

Soft thy note, and gay thy carol, 
Tho' stern winter rules the skies. 

First I knew thee by the sun-light 
Of the summer's closing day — 

Idly by the streamlet wand'ring, 
Listening to thy vocal lay. 



94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

Jo3^fully I've bailed thy coming", 
By the prairie's spreading plain, 

Or where southern roses blossom, 
Charmed by thy magic strain. 

Com'st thou to me in the silence 
Of my snow-clad home to cheer. 

Dost thou bear a message to me 
From the friend beloved and dear ? 

Welcome — for a leaf, sweet wand'rer. 
Thou hast plucked and borne, to me 

Bringing many a thought of gladness 
'Mid a dream of melody. 



THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 

Breathe but those words, ^' beloved come," 
And, as the pilgrim to his shrine. 

The wild bird to its nest ; 
So will my willing spirit greet 
Those words so welcome and so sweet. 

And seek with thee to rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 95 

The breeze that passeth o'er my brow 
Perchance but late hath passed o'er thine ; 

Oh ! could it bear one tone 
To cheer an Exile's weary lot. 
Breathing, belov'd, and unforgot, 

I'm thine, and thine alone. 

Toil would be sweet, with that dear voice 
To sooth me, heedless — though the storm 

Were bursting o'er my head ; 
Those words, like music from afar, 
Or light, shed from hope's guiding star. 

Would speak of days long fled. 

Ah ! no ! of home nor joy it speaks ; — 
The cold blast chills my fainting form. 

The Exile's dream hath past ! 
Deserted — sad — with failing breath, 
He asks one boon alone — come death. 

Thou true friend and the last. 



D6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE REVERSE. 

Life was to me a summer day. 

So full of youth and bloom, 
Of light and lovliness,; and earth, • 

A garden of perfume. 

I knew not that those sunny hours 

Could be by storms o'ercast ; 
I did but dream that gentle showers 

Would fall — too light to last. 

And yet I've lived to see that sky 

By tempests wildly riven : 
To see earth^s flow^'ets fade and die. 

Before the whirlwind driven. 

To mourn, with anguish'd heart, the wreck 

Of all that made life fair ; 
To feel that roses oft may -deck 

The forehead of despair. 



M I S C E L li A N E O tJ S 1» O E M S . 9^ 

SONG. 

Ah ! Wisdom may speak from his bright open 

page, 
And look on young beauty with visage so sage. 
But when Folly's sweet bells in the distance are 

heard, 
Believe, for I swear it, she'll not hear a word. 

Wisdom speaks like a judge, and his speeches 

are sound ; 
His words are well chosen, his periods round ; 
But when Folly, in rhyme, tells a maiden she's 

fair. 
Old Wisdom may grumble his words to the air. 

Then say not that verse hath a rapid decline, 
While live gentle women — while flows the rich 

wine ; 
I'll woo in a song the sweet girl of my soul, 
And the burden shall be — raise the ruby-tinged 

bowl. 



98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



TO 



Star of my fate I my life — my love — my joy I 
What endless toils thy weary hours employ ! 
What cares — what pleasures — win you thus to stay 
Far from my heart, that chides thy long delay? 

The chilling winter lives hut in the past, — 
Soft swells its requiem on the moaning blast ! 
Exulting Zephyrs ride the passing gale, 
And swell the canvass of the home-bound sail I 

Lo ! to the moaning breeze my voice I lend ; 
Ye Gods ! I cry ; Give back my wand'ring friend 
If far from me, (by some.slow winding stream,) 
He loves 'mid nature's solitudes to dream, — 
Or with the fisher's cunning art, uncoils 
The willing reel, ensnaring in his toils, 
(Won by the gaudy fly, or luscious bait,) 
The giddy fish swift rushing to its fate ; — 
Breathe thou, unto his heart, that once he joyed 
In other arts, when love his thoughts employed 1 
Then the enchanting page, or converse gay, 
Won him, all willingness, with me to slay. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 99 

Oh I say not he is false ! that tale of wo — 
Ye Gods ! — in mercy to my heart, forego ! 
Tell me he lives ! for me — for me alone I 
Love lights his eyes, and hreathes through every 
tone. 

Those beaming orb?, those stars of my own skies, 
Whose votary, with'ring in their absence, dies, 
Bid them illume, once more my lonely night. 
Nor banish me from that sweet source of light. 



STANZAS. 

Oh ! not to me^ oh ! not to me, 

That look of cold disdain. 
From others, I could calmly brook 
The careless word, the chilling look — 

But oh ! from ihee^ 'tis pain. 

The silver cliord — the silver chord 

When severed may unite 
With other ties ; but ah ! w^hen broke 
The lute from whence those chords awoke, 

It can no more delight. 



200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMSv 

As to the sun, the glorious sun, 
The bending Persian prays — 
And lingers till he views no more 
Its light, nor ceases to adore^ 
In gloom, its parted rays. 

So, o'er my heart, my faithful heart, 
The love that budded there — 

Still clings, as when in youth it clung; 

For memory, constant memor}^ Aung, 
With fond and anxious care. 

So many thoughts — so many thoughts, 

Of bliss, of joy, of pain — 
When I would tear thee from my mind. 
Her magic spells thine image bind — 

The effort is in vain. 

Then, not to me — oh I not to me 

That look of cold disdain, 
From others, I could calmly brook 
The careless word, the chilling look — 

But oh ! from thee, 'tis pain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 101 



TO 



We may not break, beloved, 

The spell aiound us thrown, 
Until the silver chord is loosed 

And hope, with life, hath flown. 

Then think not absence ever 

Can from my bosom take 
A love unchangeable, should'st thou, 

E'en thou — thy faith forsake. 

Ah ! no — think not thus falsely ; 

When grief hath dimmed thine eye, 
And life, with all its cares, hath press'd 

Too keenly — and too nigh. 

That I could chide those tears. 

Or thy deep grief condemn ; 
Tho' from the oak each bougli were shorn, 

The vine twines round its stem. 

Thus, should my love still lighten 

The gloom of coming years. 
Still faithful to my truth and thee, 

Through sunshine and in tears. 

I 2 



102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



DEATH OF OPECHANCANOUGH. 

[Indian Biography.] 

A monarch in captivity was dying — 
And sad attendants round liis deatli-bed stood ; 
He — the sole ruler o'er a numerous tribe, 
A savage empire, won 'mid wilds and wood- 
Like a spent lion in the strong snare lying ; 
Worn with long age and many a bloody strife,. 
Hopeless, o'erpower'd — the noble captive hailed 
The dying close of a famed warrior's life. 
Gone was the power to move each shrunken limb ; 
His heavy eyelids drooped — all powerless now ; 
Yet the fierce fire of those stern eyes still lay 
Unquenched by age — beneath his lofty brow. 
Wild murmurs broke from his attendants ; him— 
Their Cliieftain loved, — was he not almost free ; 
In the dim passage to that dreamy land — 
Wandering ? Why call him back so frantically 
The monarch bade them raise each heavy lid ; 
And, gazing sternly on a pale-faced crowd, 
" Call the white chieftain of this hostile band,'' 
He said. Then came his victor ; when aloud 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 103 

The fierce old warrior — with stern sorrow chid 
The heartless man, and said : "Had'st thou been Jed 
Captive unto the red man's wigwam — he 
Had saved from curious eyes thy dying bed." 



TO GRACE 



Thou^rt in a fairy climoj sweet one, 
'Mid the bright and lovliest thou, 

Yet, a shade is o'er thy bosom cast. 
And o'er thy sunny brow. 

Dost thou pine for thine own far distant land, 

With its forests vast and drear, 
For the wild bird's call o'er the clear blue lake,. 

And the bounding of the deer 1 

Or weep'st thou for a mother's form, 

By thy lonely couch to kneel ; 
Or the holy kiss of a father's love 

On thy pale sweet brow to feel ? 

Both, both ! though the wintry wind may sweep 
O'er the forest in its pride j 



104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Though the echo of each sweet note may cease 
The ruffled lake beside j 

Though the deer no more with its graceful step 
O'er the snow-clad hills may leap, 

I pine, I pine for that far, far shore, 
For my parent's voice I weep. 



LOVE. 

Love bringeth thoughts, that make their own dis- 
tress. 
It bringeth dreams, too, full of happiness. 
And hopes, that fall like dew-drops o'er the rose, 
Shedding sweet odours, even o'er life's close. 

A deep, a dangerous delight it seems 
To live on other's breath, a life of dreams — 
When but a word, a look, a passing sigh 
Can bring such blessedness — or misery. 

An opening bud, a faded fallen leaf 
Callethback memories of joy or grief; 
The wind that sweepeth wildly o'er the plain, 
Whispers love's passionate farewell again. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 105 

'Tis better not to love j the heart can dwell 
On other themes of happiness as well — 
Let kindly faces gather round my hearth. 
And cheer life's pilgrimage with song and mirths 



** My spirit turns to thee, and, bird-like, flings 
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee.'* 

Nay, say not so, beloved — oh ! do me not such 

wrong, — 
I've loved you very fondly — Pm sure I've loved 

you long ; 
My bosom has a hidden fount — a fount of hope 

and love ; 
Affection deeply lies, but hope is sparkling far 

above. 
Oh! do not cloud its cheerfulness, by deeming 

me untrue ; 
Hope, dimm'd, throws on poor love below, a sad 

and sombre hue. 
Oh ! give me back thine own sweet smile, thy 

look of careless glee, 
When eyes are bright and smiles are light, life 

glides so cheerily. 



106 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My own — (they sound so pleasantly, those two 
sweet little words,) 

Far sweeter than the merry call of summer-woo- 
ing- birds ; 

For, oh ! a depth of tenderness is in their very 
tone. 

Whenever you have welcomed me, by calling me 
thine own. 

Still call me so, beloved — and now adieu, adieu, 

'Tis pleasant writing those few lines to be per- 
used by you ; 

Tho' worldly cares may weary thee — those toils 
and troubles o'er — 

Come rest upon a faithful heart, and never doubt 
me more. 



TO 

Thy mellow voice is still upon mine ear. 

Sweet as the murmuring of tlie distant brake, 

Nature's wild melody, when soft and clear, 
Light zephyr bids its harmony awake. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l07 

But changed, alas ! thine eyes' deep tenderness, 
To looks of cold indifference — careless, free ; 

It seem'd as if e'en memory had less 

Of its sweet treasures, when I gazed on thee. 

And is it thus the fond heart is repaid 

For restless hours of watching and of grief? 

For thoughts of thee, when low in sickness laid, 
To whisper thy lov'd name seemed a relief. 

Alas ! that I might dream of hope once more, 
Of love, that fleeted as a summer beam 

On troubled waters — that a moment wore 

Its sunny radience — oh, that I could dream ! 

But, no, it may not be, for we have met 

As strangers meet ; the careless smile and free — 

The hand's cold touch — oh, said they not — 
" forget 
All that I vow'd— all that I was to thee V^ 

My dream is o'er, and on the whispering breeze. 
Or in the song that bids the wood rejoice, 

I'll trace no more thy word's sweet melodies, 
Nor think that music speaketh with thy voice. 



108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

CONFESSIONS. 

I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply 

felt 
The mock'ry of the hollow shrine at which my 

s^Dirit knelt. 
The weary hours — the restless nights — the mind 

in tumults toss'd, 
Ambition — were tliy gilded toys worth the sweet 

peace they cost? 
Alas ! alas! for woman's heart, 'tis an unworthy 

shrine. 
To offer up the spirit's love — and, oh ! unfit for 

mine. 
Yet must I still the phantom seek, nor listen love's 

mild tone. 
Breathed from lips whose eloquence I tremble 

whilst I own ; 
And I must learn to disavow the feelings of my 

soul— 
To teach my throbbing heart to bow to reason's 

calm control ; 
To look with coldness on the brow, where love's 

bright seal is set — 



MiSCELLANEOtrS POEMS, 109 

To turn from passion's fervent vow, and struggle 

to forget ; 
And this is woman's destiny — a life of many 

cares — 
A smiling brow above the gloom the aching 

bosom bears ; 
And her reward, a loneliness of spirit and of 

years. 
No gentle hand her own to press — with sympathi- 
zing tears. 
Her fair cheek pales beneath the chill the world 

hath round her cast ; 
Yet must she woman's fate fulfil, and struggle to 

the last ; 
E'en to the last — dissembler still — the tomb may 

not reveal 
Her love's wild terror ; nor despair break from the 

grave's cold seal. 
And if I speak in bitterness — have I not deeply 

felt 1 
Aye, trembled — lest in tenderness my woman's 
heart should melt; 

f 



110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And I have bowed me to the ground, before am- 
bition's shrine ; 

Oh ! holy love— warm, pure, and true— would I 
could bow at thine I 



" My first look on thy spotless spirit fell. 

And fate put forth its hand — inexorable — cold." 

SCHILLEB. 

Pll dream no more ; let me go forth 
Where the wild rose seeks its dwelling, 

'Neath the green-wood shade in quiet laid 
By the fountain gently swelling. 

The fire of youth from my brow hath pas'd, 
Tho' the minstrel spell is o'er me. 

Yet the chords are jarred and the music marred, 
Of the broken lute before me. 

No hand again may touch its chords, 

Or its loosened strings awaken: 
Life's happy dreams, like its music, seems 

A melody forsaken. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ill 

Forsaken — yet life's stream flows on, 

And it beareth on its foam 
The wreck of towers, built in happier hours, 

When the spirit loved to roam. 

And the murmuring of its restless wave, 

(For memory such thou art,) 
Tho' its every tone be but a moan, 

Findeth echo in my heart. 

I'll dream no more ; dreams are not bliss, 
When the heart and lute are ri /en ; 

We can weave no spell despair to quell, 
'Till we forth the fiend have driven. 



THE PACKET-SHIP ASHBURTON. 

The gallant ship is riding free 

Upon the dai.cing wave. 
Her snowy sails are filled — the breeze 

Its gentle impulse gave. 



112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS^* 

And brightly forth, beneath the sun, 
(Whilst white-foam wreathed around 

Her graceful prow,) she glided, like 
A bride with chaplets crowned. 

And the waves will kiss her dai?y, 
Wooing with the breath of morn, 

And they'll aid her, whilst they greet her, 
As on her course she's borne. 

How gracefully her white sails drooped, 
Ere freshly blew the breeze ; 

How proudly, wlien her canvass filled. 
She rode upon the seas. 



The sun looks out from the blue sky, 

A glorious winter's sun, 
The white cliffs in the distance rise, 

The hoped-for land is won. 

Now gladly launch thy swiftest boat. 
Row onward to the strand j 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Il3 

Ye wand'rers from your native shore 
Step out upon the land. 

A few brief hours — a few short weeks — 

Once more upon the main 
Glideth that bold and gallant ship — 

She seeketh home again. 

Her swiff prow dasheth thro' the wave^ — 

We smile, her sails to greet ; 
And welcome, with a sailor's love, 

The ffallant shin so fleet. 



THE COQUETTE. 

Mary, dear Mary, oh ! never say no. 

But speak with thine own voice, so gentle and 

low, 
And look in n\ine eyes with thine own of true 

blue, 
Whilst you whisper — Oh ! William, I dearly love 

you. 

J 2 



114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But Mary has turned from her wooer away — 
She plucked the wild rose from its prickly spray. 
The brier it wounded — Ah ! maiden, and thou 
Hast wounded another — pale, pale is his brow. 

And is it so, Mary ? — Heaven help me !, I go ; — 
This moment of agony may you ne'er know ! — 
He sprang to his feet — and his look of farewell 
Was on Mary's vain heart like a withering spell. 

Some said, as a sailor afar he had sailed, 

And her light form grew thinner, her rosy cheek 

paled ; 
The old mother sighed, for she well knew the 

trace 
Of death on her daughter's once beautiful face* 

The summer hath passed — and the winter is 

o'er. 
Again spring is clust'ring the buds round the 

door ; 
Tho' balmy and sweet be the May's gentle breath 
Poor Mary still withers, it brings to her — death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Il5 

The brier is blooming as when they last met, 
But the eyes of a mother with tears are still wet ; 
It hath bloomed and hath faded, its pale leaves 

are shed, 
And William long weeps o'er the loved and the 

dead. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 



Ou3 of the Signers of the Independence, buried beneath 
Trinity Church. 

Thou askest me of thy sire, my boy — thine an- 
cient sire, whose hand 

Assisted in the mighty work that freed this glo- 
rious land. 

They laid him in the ground, with many a tear 
and prayer, 

And the last of those that lov'd him^ were 
gathered humbly there j 



116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

They wept not for the patriot — what recked they 

of a name 1 — 
They knew that he had gone, and what to him 

was fame : 
But in the solitude of home — as years crept 

slowly on, 
And time, with healing wing, had soothed the 

grief now calmly borne. 
The memory of those gallant men, and he, their 

aged sire, 
Kindled anew within their hearts, his pure and 

holy fire. 

Thou asketh me, my boy — '' Where lie the ashes 

of the dead? 
Raised not his country, for that deed, the marble 

o'er his head ?" 
Aye ; e'en a monument of art — of sculpture rich 

and rare : 
Oil I never hath the young eye gazed on ought 

so wondrous fair. 
But, to the One Eternal is that holy structure 

reared, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 117 

He, unto whom thy grand-sire bowed — the loved, 

and yet the feared ; 
And when thou bendeth on thy knee, and pray - 

eth for God's grace, 
Forget not him whose aged form lies 'neath that 

holy place. 



CHILDHOOD'S PRAYER. 

It is a pure and holy thing, 

Young childhood's simple prayer. 
So little of man's worldliness. 

So much of Heaven seems there. 
Their eyes upraised and small hands clasped, 

While dwell their lips upon 
Their Savior's words, (when agonized) 

^' Father, thy will be done." 

Ah ! mother, gaze upon thy child, 
Thou know'st he now is pure ; 

How much of misery — of crime- 
May that young heart endure ! 



118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The first of his brief life hath gone, — 

As a sweet dream it pass'd ; 
Oh ! think not in thy hopefulness 

Such blessed days will last ; 
For Sorrow meets man in his course, 

Blighting each promised joy ; 
A.nd moody, in his noon-tide hour, 

Becomes the buoyant boy. 

Or Pleasure, with her winning smile, 

Points to her fragrant boweis, — 
Deeply of Circe's cup he drinks. 

And strews the brim with flowers. 
The poison works ! — ah ! mother! see 

Thy young, thy cherished son. 
Pale — drooping — dying ! Life hath past, 

And pleasure's course is run. 

Must it be thus ? No ; let lis hope 
Those youthful prayers may rise — 

Thus humbly blended with thine own-— 
'' Sweet incense to the skies»" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS* ll9 

That God may send his blessing down 

Upon the trusting one. 
And guard from sorrow and from guilt 

Thy pure and only son. 



THE CONSUMPTIVE. 

I cannot rest with a breaking heart, 
Till I rest within my grave ; 

Vain is the leech's healing art, 
He hath no power to save. 

I am passing to that '^better land" 
Where the weariest soul hath peace ; 

Kind friends, why pray to stay the hand 
That bids my torture cease? 

Oh ! bring me to my Savior's love, 
** Father, who art in Heaven,'^ 

And raise my erring soul above 
The love to which 'twas given. 



120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Her lips, half parted, were in prayer, 
Low bent the graceful head ; 

Her words they seemed to echo there, 
E'en when her soul had fled. 

The story, 'twas a simple one. 

Of loving feelings borne, 
Till passion's own intensity 

Had the youug dreamer worn. 

In silence and in solitude 

It preyed within her breast, 
A secret guarded faithfully. 

And scarce to Heaven confessed. 

There was one mourner at her tomb, 

A stranger seemed he here ; 
All marvell'd how his strong frame shook, 

When standing by her bier. 

And when the earth liad closed her in, 
And the last prayer was said. 

They heard him mutter, " Would that I 
Were buried with the dead !" 



MISCELLANEOtrS POEMS. 12 1 

None knew him but the aged man 

"Who wept above his child. 
And saw in him a neighbor's son — 

A reckless youth and wild — 

Companion of her childhood's years,— 

Lovers, 'twas said, in youth ; 
Alas ! for man's inconstancy, 

For woman's dying truth. 



PHILOSOPHY OF THE STARS, 

The Heavens are calm and the night serene, 
Look out, fair girl, 'tis a fairy scene, 
And mark how the moon, with that star so fair, 
Still wend their way through the fields of air. 

And ever 'tis thus, when the skies above. 
Are lit with the moon's pale light of love ; 
Still pressed to her side with a jealous care, 
Like a favorite lover, that star is there. 



122 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Yes, gaze ! 'tis the star of my natal hour, 
And, born 'neath its trembling ray, 

Was the spirit of bliss, who on earth hath power, 
And in Heaven an holier sway. 

Then think of tliem, love, as a glorious boon, 

As a type of that spirit given. 
And gaze on that star and the calmer moon 

As an emblem of Hope and Heaven. 



" There have been roses round my lute, but novr 
I must forsake them for the cypress bough," 

THE FESTIVAL. 

(From an Ancient Song of the Troubadoui's, or Trouveres.) 

The sound of merry minstrelsy breathes from yon 

lofty hall. 
Light-moving footsteps glide along re-echoing 

music's call. 
And many a young and joyous heart beats 'neath 

the silken dress. 
That shadows yet reveals so much of maiden 

loveliness. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 123 

But she, the fairest and the loved — amid that joy- 
ous throng, 

Whose life seemed hut one pleasant dream of 
perfume and of song, 

Seemed weary ; with impatient look she glanced 
her eyes around — 

Ah ! like the Ark's fair Dove — no green, nor 
resting place they found. 

Gone was the echo of the dance — fled mirth and 

minstrelsy — 
Nought hut a clear and placid stream, could that 

sweet lady see, 
No sound, but sounds of tenderness, from one, 

whose manly tone 
And noble bearing, won the heart th.at beat for 

him alone ; 
And he was bending on his knee, right by that 

pleasant stream. 
(Oil ! wonder not in grandeur's hall, came such 

a simple dream, 
For Love will enter in as well as in the humble 

cot — 



124 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Then wealth seems poor and power is vain, and 
worldly thoughts forgot.) 

A sudden spell hath caugjit her ; — now she 
wakes from her wild trance, 

The brightest in the glittering throng — the gayest 
in the dance. 

For who may read that lady's eye — and mark the 
secret there 1 

Or trace the serpent's trail Avhere flowers and per- 
fume showered are 1 

You've marked the. blossom on the bush, the leaf 
upon the tree, 

And knew not that the hidden worm was work- 
ing silently ; 

You've seen, e'er from the tree it fell, the leaf's 
rich gorgeous hue. 

Nor recked that summer ne'er again, with its 
sweet healing dew, 

Can bring the beauty to the bud — the freshness to 
the leaf. 

So fades the cheek — so withers all, beneath the 
touch of grief. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 2.5 

And love, all fearful in its course— a love that 
might not bless. 

Had thrown its sliadow o'er her brow, and dim- 
med its loveliness. 

Ah ! tear tlie serpent from thine heart, the wreath 
from off thy brow, 

And in thy closet bend the knee with a more holy 
vow ; 

And clothe thine heart with purity, with penance 
and with prayer ; 

Sow not the whirlwind, reap not tliou repent- 
ance and despair. 



THE BLOODY RUN. 

A party of soldiers were attacked by Indians at a stream called^ 
from the circumstances of the fight, " The Bloody Run." 

In the bosom of the mountain. 

Where the ling'ring moonbeams lay, 

Calm in their placid beauty, 
Like an infant tired of play, 

K 2 



126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Just where the last shade parted 
When the sun had sunk to sleep, 

A torrent wildly darted 

From a high and rocky steep. 

Around, in ambush crouching, 

Were hid an Indian foe, 
With their deadly hatchets gleaming 

'Neath the furze and brushwood low ; 
Like the lurking panther stealing 

O'er the forest to its prey, 
Well hidden by the cedar, 

The treacherous Indians lay. 

What sound hath broke the silence 

Of this wild and savage lair? 
The merry notes of drum and fife. 

With banners floating fair. 
And martial steps all treading 

The steep and rugged way ; 
Their bayonets glitter brightly 

In the moonbeams glancing ray. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 127 

O'er the mountain's lofty bosom 

With wearied steps and slow 
They come — now thread the valley, 

Now reach the water's flow. 
They dip their way-worn bonnets 

In the wave, to cool their thirst, 
When, with whoop and yell, the Indians 

From their ambush madly burst. 

Now circles high the hatchet, 

Now gleams the sharpen'd knife ; 
Like deer at gaze, each victim 

Gives up his panting life. 
They sink, they bleed, they struggle, 

The stream is tinged with gore. 
And tliose who stooped to drink it 

The waters have passed o'er. 

One moment, and they rally. 
On tlie treach'roiis foeman turn, 

And to revenge their comrades, 
With stern resolve they burn ; 

For days the foe are hunted 



1 28 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Through the forest and the dell, 
And for their murder'd brethren 
Full five score Indians fell. 

The peasant, when he wanders 

Past that scene of blood and strife, 
Half trembles in the moonlight, 

Lest he see the gleaming knife ; 
Though the Indians long have perish'd 

On the mountains wooded breast. 
Yet he deems their spirits linger 

Where their mould'ring bones have rest. 
And he trembles, as the shadows 

From the fast-receding sun 
Are gathering — and, in terror, 

He leaves the Bloody Run,. 



THE BACKWOODSMAN'S TALE. 

" And in a voice of solemn joy that awed 
Echo into oblivion, he said — " 

Heaven smiled propitiously upon the land 
My fathers won, and the Creator's hand 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 129 

Conspicuous shone ; for there, luxuriant fields 
A wealthy harvest to the farmer yields, 
And shady groves, with cooling streams unite 
To temper with their freshness Heaven's w^arm 

light. 
Fruits, flowerets, lierbs profusely scattered o'er 
Bade e'en the savage, Nature's God adore — 
To lowly bow, and 'neath each shady bower 
By nature softened, own a higheT power. 
Creation's beauties filling every sense. 
He asks the cause, and owns tli' Omnipotence. 

And I was blest ! my child — our only one — 
Sought my caress at eve, when toil was done ; 
Whilst my own Mary dressed the cleanly board 
With wholesome food, and fruits delicious stored. 
Each Sabbath morn, at the first dawn of day, 
By the pure light we rose, for we could pray 
To the blessed giver of content, as well 
'Neath the wide Heavens as by the chapel bell. 
The grateful heart a response still may find 
In the fair fields — or breathing on the wind. 



130 M I S C EL L ANE O rs POEM^^ 

The Indian tribes, by treaties, bad been won 
Afar to wander — where the settins: sun 
Claims as his own tlie vallies, fields and wood 
Glowing beneath — of light a glorious flood. 
Not then had murder loosed her fiendish train, 
But peace and plenty ruled the fertile plain. 

One stilly eve we sat within the porch^ 
Watching our child — as, eager for the torch 
Of the fire-fly, that, cn'cling round his head, 
Flashed tiny lightning, after it he sped, 
(My fearless boy) bounding within the gloom 
Of the deep forest. Faded then the bloom 
From his fond mother's cheek — '' Oh, haste V 

slie cried, 
" The prowling wolves within the forest bide ; 
No later than this moin their steps were nigh 
Our cottage door." I listened to her cry, 
And sought the child with undefined alarm — 
A fearful trembling — could our boy meet harm 
In the dark wood ? Hark ! was it Mary's scream 1 
I flew to meet my child lest she should deem 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 3l 

Some evil liad befallen ; all was still 

As the calm tomb — when, suddenly, a shrill 

And bitter cry rose 'mid the solitude, 

And a bright light illuming where I stood. 

Showed me my boy — dead — dead ! Oh ! God ! 

oh ! God ! 
His fair locks trampled in the bloody sod. 

I do not rave — nay, stare not thus aghast, 
That vision shakes my soul, but it hath past; 
Weeping I bore him to our once calm cot ; 
He, the young blessing of our lonely lot 
Had yielded his pure soul ; I was alone ! 
And, mourning, I retraced my steps — when shone 
A fiercer light — and yells, as if were hurled 
A spirit of the tortured on the world ; 
Curdled ray blood 5 — I saw the flaming torch 
Upon my dwelling; by the crumbling porch 
Stood the dark savage — demon — murderous foe^ 
Aiming o'er Mary's head the deadly blow. 
Thank Heaven ! my arm was strong ; he fell, 
Pierced by my bullet— how, I scarce can telL 
Mary was saved ; but, senseless, from the ground 



132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I raised her, and the first low sound 

Was, ^'My dear boy — oh ! bring him to me now 5 

Let us together to our Maker bow. 

Are we not saved 1 Come husband let us pray !'^ 

And starting from my bosom, where she la}?", 

Ere I could break to her the dreadful tale. 

She saw the murdered chikl ; one bitter wail 

Burst from her lips ; then quietly she knelt. 

And wiped his brow; and his stilled bosom felt, 

And gazed on him ; alas ! her reason passed 

E'en as she gazed ; upon them both the blast 

Had fallen — ever, from that hour. 

Speechless, she was — a pale and dying flower 

Wrecked by tlie wintry wind — her form 

Felt not the glownng summer's breathing warm ; 

Yet still she lived, if such can be called breath — 

This lingering 'twixt the arms of love and death -, 

Dead to all here — patient, but still ; so still, 

That e'en the sufferer's death were lesser ill. 

And years had passed — alas ! she could not die, 
But still breathed on— the spring-time now was 
nigh. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 133 

And Mary sat with me within the door, 

For she the wintry montlis had lingered o'er, 

Brooding with moody lips — mute, startful, hot — 

A maniac look — that tale had o'er her shot. 

I turned upon the sufferer to look — 

Her frame with all-unwonted tremors shook, 

And the long-absent blood ruslied to her cheek ; 

She w^ept — oh ! did I dream ? — My Mary, speak, 

I cried. — She met my gaze 

With all tiie fondness of our happier days. 

My husband, murmured she ; my child, my child ! 

Lay me with him ! then, kissing me, she smiled, 

And, bending l»er meek liead'upon my breast, 

So died. — I laid her where slie prayed to rest. 

And through the pathless prairies, unseen 
'Till now, by man, a wanderer I've been. 
Each year I seek tlieir grave. Stranger, 1 pray 
That soon my aged bones in peace may lay 
With theirs so loved. * ^' * * 



I34 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS* 



'' THE LAST ERRAND OF THE INDIAN 
CHIEF ' BALD EAGLE.' "* 

Speed on, speed on, no sound is borne 

Upon the troubled wave ; 
The balk hath sped — its steersman wan, 

No cheering answer gave. 

On, on it sped — I trow the dead 

Fear not the current strong, 
No oar propell'd, and yet it fled, 

A fearful thing along. 

And high above the ravens scream 

In eddying circle round. 
The wild deer, starting from the stream, 

Springs with a startled sound. 

The "Bashkwa" wheels above the wood| 

The gloom is deep'ning now. 
The doomed bark, safe o'er the flood, 

Hath passed with steady prow : 

• C. HofTman's " Winter in the We«t.* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 135 

Step outj step out, brave mariner, 

Thy wonted goal is won. 
And soft thy couch of yielding fur, 

Come, rest — thy toils are done. 

He spoke not, looked not once around, 

His fearful errand 's sped ; 
The death-bark touched upon the land, 

They gazed upon the dead. 

Revenge! revenge! the war-whoop sound ! 

The mystic wampum weave, 
Tear the red hatchet from the ground. 

Thus, shall thy warriors grieve. 

Let burning brand and bloody blade 

Avenge our chieftain's wrong ; 
The light turf on his corse they laid. 

Then raised their battle sonof. 



Years have passed on, yet in the gloom. 

The lonely settler fears 
To meet that bark of death and doom, 

A-S on its shadow steers. 



136 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE BLASTED OAK. 

Dark on the heath the night gloom fell, 
Loud sighed the wind ; with fitful spell 

Tlie light'^ning glared around, 
And meeting clouds, with angry roar, 
The burthen of the tempest bore. 

Far o'er the trembling ground. 

Hark ! heard ye not, 'mid torrents borne, 
The echo of a distant horn 

Upon the moaning blast'? 
And clatt'ring hoofs as if, with speed, 
For life, for life spurred on a steed — 

It comes, and now 't hath past, 

With bloody spur, and frantic mien — 
Too well the rider's haste, I ween. 

Of crime, of terror spoke ; 
And ever and anon he threw 
A fearful glance, where lonel}^ grew 

An old and gnarled oak» 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l37 

For 'neath that leafless trunk hath lain 
The mould'ring corse, of one long slain ; 

(Oh, God ! can such things be?) 
The rider spurred his courser on; 
'^ Oh ! for the blessed beam of morn 

To light me cheerily !" 

On, on the madden'd courser fled, 
His snorting nostrils speak his dread — 

With visage ghastly pale 
The rider spurred ; — '' My gallant steed 
Why faulter at thy master's need 1 

Why tremble thus, and quaill 

Avaunt, ye spirits of the slain. 
My horn shall gaily sound again, 

To bid yon loiterers haste." 
He said ; and wound a trembling blast — 
Started tlie horse, as, moaning, pass'd, 

A shadow o'er the waste. 

*^'Tis he !" — the trembling murderer cries, 
" Oh, God ! — I see his pleading eyes — 
That wide and bleeding gash : — 

L 2 



138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

Hah ! lia ! — 'tis but a shadow, born 
Of clouds — (such oft the earth hath worn ;) 
Scared by the lightning's flash ! 

Down came Heaven's bolt — a forked light 
Play'd round the tree ; and, by the bright 

And vivid flame it cast, 
I s«.w the murderer, writhing, fall ; 
Then closed around night's gloomy pall, 

And louder moaned the blast. 



THE COMBAT. 

His helmet is cloven, his lance sliivered lies. 
His white plumes are tinged with the battle's red 

dyes 5 
In vain his bright corslet — the foe's deadly thrust 
Through the links of his mail-covered body hath 

burst. 

Now yield thee, Sir Knight, fair Oneila thy 

bride ! 
Her beauty shall cheer me — her domains are 

wide ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 

That bright flower of love I would wreath round 

my soul — 
Then yield her, the prize, to thy victor's control. 

Faint, faint felt the knight, and his head drooped 

low, 
'Till it bent to the rise of his steel saddle-bow ; 
The bright sun seemed shaded, and fast o'er 

the ground 
The lengthening shadows were gathering round. 

Yield, yield thy Oneila, thine arm, boy, is 

weak — 
The soft down is short on thy fair youthful 

check ; 
Young beauty from thee no protection can claim • 
Fame breathes not one blast at the sound of thy 

name. 

The Heavens were purple with sunset's last glow 
As young Theodore turned from his dark-visor'd 

foe ; 
He thought of his lordly and far-distant tower — 
Of her, his young bride, in her desolate bower ; 



140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And his life-blood flowed faster! — Oh! who 

would defend 

His bride, from the arts of his false perjured 

friend 1 

"False craven !" — he shouted ; dilated his eye, 
As he uttered the words of his dread propliec}'^ ; — 
" Thy bones soon shall whiten on Palestine 

land ; 
Nay, think not of home, thou wilt ne^er reach 

its strand : 
The plague is upon thee — I see it — I feel ! 
Its pangs are far keener than glittering steel ; 
Onelia, Oneila — to thee, love, I come — 
We will rove by the cool-flowing fountains — our 

home 

Is fair, love," he murmured.— In death now 

recline 
The victor and vanquished, in far Palestine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 



DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 

Away to the battle — the foe onward pour — 
Away, my fleet courser, I ne'er needed more 
Thy speed and thy courage — on, on to the fight; 
One glance, at the onset, were worth a whole life. 

'^ Oh ! stay thy fleet steed," said a voice in his 

ear, 
'' A foe is approaching — his footsteps are near ; 
Not low on the gory-stained field thou wilt lie ; 
Oh, warrior, prepare thee ! this moment thou'lt 

die," 

The warrior he started — and, lo I at his side, 
In loose sable garment, a horseman did ride; 
No weapon displayed he— no word did he speak, 
Yet the red color blanched on the warrior's 
cheek. 

His eyes on the knight he so steadily turned. 
Like bright glowing coals, in their sockets they 
burn'd ; 



l42 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Oh ! he who could gaze, undismayed, on their 

gleam, 
Was a warrior in feeling and bearing, I deem. 

Then answered the knight: — " So help me, St. 
Bride ! 

Whilst my lance, still unbroken, I bear by my 
side ; 

My helmet and shield to no foe will I yield, 

Whilst my heart breathes a gasp on the blood- 
stained field." 

The warrior hath spoken, and calmly he gazed. 
While the sable-clothed horseman his hand 

slowly raised ; 
'^ Not low on the gory-stained field thou wilt lie ; 
Oh, warrior, prepare thee! this moment thouPt 

die." 

"And must it be so, then? Death, art thou so 

near 1 
I shun thee not — phantoms the coward may 
fear 5 



MlSCELLANEOtJS POEMS. l43 

'Mid the battle I hoped to have breathed my 

last sigh ; 
Now farewell, my country — farewell, ye bright 

sky/' 

Lo I his helmet and shield in the dust they arii 

strown, 
His fleet steed afar o'er the wide plain hath 

flown ; 
The phantom he vanished in darkness and 

gloom, 
And they bear the cold corse of the knight to th« 

tomb. 



QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCH^ 
LEVEN CASTLE. 

The moon looks down on lake and lea, 

O'er wood and ruined tower, 
And tinges, with its silvery light, 

The Lady's lofty bower. 



144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

No light, save from the moonbeam's ray, 

Upon the casement streams ; 
The flame hath to the socket burnt, 

The gentle lady dreams. 

Not then so darkly was it wont 

On former eves to be ; 
Bright lights, then, from the casement 
stream 'd, 

And merry minstrelsy. 

And gallant kniglits within tliat hall. 

Sighed for a smiling glance 
From her, the loveliest in the land, 

The ro3^al dame of France. 

But now she rests in captive thrall, 
Fair Scotia's beauteous queen ; 

A brighter gem hath never beam'd 
In diadem, I ween. 

Oh ! shame on Scotland's chivalry, 

On Britain's nobles, shame ; 
Why rest their scabbards on the blade, 

When weeps so fair a dame? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 

She dreams, perchance, of grievous wrongs, 

Of manhood's blighted truth. 
Or fondly of her own lov'd France 

And happy days of youth — 

Or sadly muses o'er her lot. 

With pensive step, and slow. 
Wandering beneath that vaulted dome, 

A beauteous form of woe. 

The moon shines briglitly o'er the scene, 

And, by its mellow 'd light, 
Upon theivy'd casement rests 

An arm of ivory white. 

And cautiously a female form 

From that rude turret leant. 
With stealthy glance, and anxious look 

Upon the waters bent. 

There is a ripple on the lake, 
A sound upon the air, , 

And yet no breeze the waters stir, 
The midnight sky is fair. 



I|j MISCELLANEOUS POEMS., 

The moon looks out on lake and lea^ 
And o'er that gloomy tower; — 

Lady, arise, no longer weep, 
Propitious is the hour. 

I see a noble manly form 

A shallop lightly skim, 
And now it touches on the shore — 

Brave Douglas, it is him. 

The turret door is quickly won, 

The warder he doth sleep. 
And other hands now hold the key, 

And ope that dismal keep. 

Queen Mary on the threshold stands. 

One startled look she cast 
Upon the tower ; her utter'd thought— 

'' Heaven grant it be the last!" 

She turned, and with gentle tone, 
" Brav^ Douglas, in my need. 

Thou hast preserved a wretched one, 
Heaven's blessing on the deed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The captive Mary yet may prove 

Her gratitude, but now— 
Thanks— the poor guerdon she bestows, 

Tears and a happy brow !" 

The Douglas bent with reverence low^ 

Then, with a kindly haste, 
He whispered, ^' On, my sovereign, 

The precious moments waste.'* 

On the slight shallop's prow she stepp'd 
" Farewell, ye towers," she cried ; 

^' Oh ! Douglas, but for thee, perchance 
Within these walls Pd died." 



" Susojos a mis ojos 

Miven ateiitos, 

Y, callando se dicen 

Sus sentimentos, 

Cosa es bien eavas, 

Qua sin habaose entienden 

Nuestros dos almas." 



147 



TO 



It told me thou wert all my own— 
(My gentle one) — that voiceless tone- 



148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dost thou forget the day 
When gazing fondly in thine eyes, 
I saw, with rapturous surprise. 

Young love half hidden lay? 
Blush not — that from thine eyes was told 
A tale thy lips would deem too bold. 

Nor e'er, sweet one, deny the tale 
Once whispered 'neath the drooping veil 

Of thine eyes' fringed lid 1 
But turn once more their tender gaze, 
As in those early joyous days, 

Ere by cold prudence chid. 
Ah ! treacherous lips, why thus deny 
What's written in that tell-tale eye 1 



